Sultan's Wife (2 page)

‘And forgot to bring them in?'

Sidi Kabour gives a helpless shrug. ‘Her mother was sick: she spent the night sitting with her and remembered the carpets only after first prayer. They were my grandmother's, woven of good strong wool, but the colours have run.' He grimaces, but I know the conversation is designed only to dull the ears of the lurking client. As he lists the herbs he mixed for his mother-in-law and the effects they have had on her constipation, the man speaks.

‘Do you have root of wolf's onion?'

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Wolf's onion is a rare plant with contradictory properties. Beneficial substances in its tuber can stem bleeding and promote the rapid healing of wounds, as I know only too well. However, the leaves in reduction have the ability to produce a deadly toxin. The scarcity of the plant and its powerful effects render its price extravagantly high. The buyer's accent places him as coming from somewhere between the lower Atlas range and the Great Desert, which is the region in which wolf's onion is most commonly found (and looking down I see he wears slippers with round toes, which you do not commonly find here in the north). He must therefore know that it can be bought in the souq in Tafraout at a far more reasonable price. Which means that to this man, or to the master he serves, money is of no object, and the need for the plant is urgent. But the question remains: is it required for healing or for killing?

Sidi Kabour scurries to the back of the shop. I feel the man's eyes upon me and smile blandly at him, only to be taken aback by the intensity of his stare. Courtiers are often envied; luxury men and blackamoors frequently despised. I put his look down to such prejudice.
‘Salaam aleikum
. Peace be with you, sir.'

‘And with you.'

On the pretext of removing the wretched pattens, I slip the paper I am holding, which contains a list of the required items, beneath a bottle of the Empress Zidana's preferred brand of musk, where Sidi Kabour will know to find it. We have used this system before, he and I: you can never be too careful when you deal in secrets. I stow the overshoes beneath the stall, where I can retrieve them later, then straighten up, making a great show of brushing rain off my cloak, so that the stranger can see my hands are empty.

His eyes are still upon me: his gaze makes my skin crawl. Have I seen him around the court? The cast of his face is in some way familiar. Under his knitted red skullcap his bones lie close to the surface: he would be considered handsome if it were not for a certain meanness around the mouth. No slave-bond in his ear. A freedman? A merchant in his own right? Anything is possible: Morocco is one of the world's trade crossroads, the entire country a marketplace. But if the man is a mere merchant why did Sidi Kabour flash me a warning? And why is this man attempting to purchase,
in plain hearing, a powerful poison? If he knows who I am, he must know I am here on a similar mission. Is it some sort of test? And if so, by whom?

Of course, I have my suspicions. I have my enemies, and so does my mistress.

Sidi Kabour reappears. ‘Is this what you're looking for?'

The customer sniffs the tubers as if he can by the sheer power of his nose ascertain whether they meet his standards. Another false note: any true poisoner knows it matters not how old the root is: like its cousin, the lily, the wolf onion preserves its lethal qualities indefinitely.

‘How much?'

The herbman names an extortionate price and the man agrees to it with a minimum of haggling. Which decides me that there is something sinister going on. While the southerner is digging in his pouch for the coins, I walk quickly away out into the Henna Souq, almost colliding with a handcart piled high with water vessels, pots and pans, swiftly putting several donkeys, a bustle of veiled women and a gaggle of children between myself and any pursuer. Taking refuge under the awning of a coffee stall, I stare back and watch the people pass by, looking for sharp features under a knitted red skullcap. When it becomes clear that no one is in pursuit, I curse my foolishness. The catcalling of the European slaves has set my nerves on edge. I am not myself.

Besides, there are errands to be run for my master: I have no time to dally here, coddling my paranoia. Best leave Sidi Kabour to get rid of the southerner and set about fulfilling the empress's order: I will return for it later. There are some items on the list that may take him some while to prepare.

The horse-dresser's stall is on the other side of the souq, beyond the cloth-merchants, haberdashers and tailors, the cordwainers and cobblers. The caparisoner is a big man, almost as dark as myself, with large, lugubrious features that, on hearing my request, arrange themselves in an expression of almost comical dismay. ‘A shitbag? Embroidered in
gold
?'

I nod. ‘It is for a very holy horse. It has made the pilgrimage to Mecca and its droppings cannot be allowed to fall upon the ground.' I explain in precise detail the design Moulay Ismail desires.

The man's eyes bulge. ‘And how much will the sultan pay for such intricate work?' But already he looks defeated: he knows the answer.

I spread my hands apologetically. The sultan never parts with a coin if he can help it. The country and everything within it pertain to him: what need to pay? What need for money at all in such a system? But my master hoards it in the Treasury and, if rumour is to be believed, in many secret chambers dug beneath the palace grounds. The day after his brother Sultan Moulay Rachid died, celebrating the Great Feast by riding his horse wildly through the gardens of his palace in Marrakech until fatally crowned by a low-hanging orange branch, Ismail occupied the Treasury at Fez and declared himself emperor. Since he thus controlled their pay, the army at once pledged their support. He is a wily man, my master: he has a nose for power. He makes a good emperor, albeit self-styled.

I remind the poor caparisoner that the royal commission is sure to win him more lucrative work from those who wish to ape my master's example, but, as I leave him, I can see he is not convinced there will be many other takers for gold-embroidered shitbags.

The rest of my important tasks are accomplished with greater ease, since the tradesmen know the score well enough. Besides, it is an honour to supply the emperor, descended as he is directly from the Prophet. It is something to boast of. Some have even made signs which read:
By order of His Majesty, Sultan Moulay Ismail, Emperor of Morocco, God grant him Glory and Long Life
. He'll live longer than any of us, I think as I walk on. Certainly longer than any of those of us within reach of his temper. Or his sword.

My next appointment is the one I am most looking forward to. The Coptic Bookseller visits Meknes seldom. He has made a special visit at this auspicious time with an addition Ismail has requested for his famed collection of holy books. Not that Ismail can read a word of these volumes himself (what need when he can pay scholars to do it for him? Besides, he has the whole of the Qur'an by heart, a skill which he likes to demonstrate frequently). But he loves his books and treats them with great veneration: he has a great deal more respect for his books than he does for human life.

After the usual fulsome greetings and inquiries after his wife, children, mother, cousins, and goats, the Egyptian leaves me to fetch the order from
the strongroom he rents when he is in town, and I idle away the time breathing in the scents of old leather and parchment, touching the well-loved covers, poring over the engraved verses. The bookseller is breathless and flushed and the hood of his
djellaba
is wet through when he comes bustling back. When he takes the book out of its linen wrap, I can see why he has not kept it amongst his usual stock, for its beauty steals my breath. Its bindings have been gilded in two tones of gold. Intricate patterns are tooled into a central panel contained within a bold double border. It reminds me of the carpets in the sultan's own chambers, gorgeous things from far-off Herat and Tabriz.

‘May I?' I keep my face very still, but my hands are shaking as I reach for it.

‘From Shiraz. Made in the time of the early Safavids. See the cutwork on the inner board? It is exquisitely done, but very fragile.'

‘Is this silk or paper?' I run my fingertips over the delicate openwork pattern cut into the inside of the cover, revealing jewel-like lozenges of turquoise beneath.

The Coptic Bookseller smiles indulgently. ‘Silk, of course.'

I open the volume at random and come upon the 113th Sura, the Al-Falaq. Tracing the swirling calligraphy with a finger, I read aloud: ‘I seek shelter with the Lord of the daybreak, from the evil of what He has created, and from the evil of darkness when it falls. And from the evil of witchcrafts when sorceresses blow on the knots, and from the evil of men when they envy me …' It could describe my world. I look up. ‘It is an edition worthy of the beauty of the words it contains.'

‘It is indeed a priceless treasure.'

‘If I were to tell the sultan you say this book is without price, he is likely to shrug and say that nothing he can give will be sufficient and that therefore he will give you nothing.' I pause. ‘But I am authorized to make you an offer.' I name a very substantial sum. He cites one twice as large, and after some polite haggling we settle somewhere between the two.

‘Come to the palace the morning after the inauguration,' I tell him, ‘and the grand vizier will honour this agreement.'

‘I will bring the book to the sultan tomorrow.'

‘I must take the book with me now: Moulay Ismail is impatient to see it. Besides, tomorrow is the day of gathering: he will not see visitors.'

‘In this weather? If one drop of rain touches it, it will be ruined. Let me bring it to the palace myself on the sabbath, suitably boxed for presentation.'

‘I will lose my head if I do not return with the book, and ugly though my head is I have become oddly attached to it.'

The man gives me a crooked smile, and I remember that despite the vaunted wife and children he is known to have a boy or two whom he pays well for their favours, a practice that may well be acceptable in Egypt but had best be hidden in Ismail's Morocco. ‘Ugly it is not; I would not see it parted from the rest of you, Nus-Nus. Take it, then: but guard it with your life. I will come for payment on the morning of the sabbath.' Sighing, he wraps it reverently in the linen and hands it over. ‘Remember: it is quite irreplaceable.'

I would be lying if I say I am not anxious about carrying such a treasure, but I have only two more errands to complete: some spices for my friend Malik, and a quick return to the herbman to pick up Zidana's items.

Malik and I are in the habit of trading favours: we have become friends by necessity as much as by inclination, since he is Ismail's chief cook and I the sultan's food-taster, amongst my many other duties. Mutual trust is useful in such circumstances. Malik's needs –
ras al hanout
mixed to his own recipe and an essence of attar to which Ismail is partial in his couscous – take me back to the Spice Quarter, where I make the necessary purchases. Thence it is only a short step to the hidden stall of Sidi Kabour.

I duck beneath the awning and am surprised to find the place unattended. Perhaps Sidi Kabour has slipped out to take tea with a fellow stallholder, or to fetch more charcoal for his brazier. I move the bottle of musk to one side and am gratified to see that Zidana's list is gone. Perhaps the herbman has gone to fetch an item kept in more discreet premises …

Another minute passes and still there is no sign of him. The heady scent of the incense burning in its brass container is becoming quite stifling. It is not the usual pleasant fragrance Sidi Kabour favours – a little elemi resin mixed with white benzoin – but a more complex combination out of which
I can detect wood of aloe and the clashing scents of amber and pine resin, one sweet, one acrid, which no one in their right mind would combine.

Come along
, I mutter, and feel my gut twist with anxiety. Wait or go? My anxiety begins to mount. Soon the sultan will begin his afternoon rounds and expect me to accompany him as I always do. But if I go back without Zidana's purchases, she will fly into a fury or, worse, into one of those silent musings that tend to precede an act of cruel retribution. Being caught between the two of them is the daily peril of my existence: sometimes it is difficult to know which of them is the more dangerous: the sultan with his towering rages and sudden outbursts of violence, or his chief wife with her more subtle terrors. I am not sure that I believe in the efficacy of her magic, for, despite being raised in similar traditions (I amongst the Senufo, her with the neighbouring Lobi), I like to think I have acquired a degree of enlightenment on my travels. Of her ability to use all manner of subtle poisons effectively, though, I have no doubt at all. I do not enjoy ferrying poisons for the empress, facilitating her wicked death-dealing, but, as a slave of the court, I have little choice. The Meknes court is a spider's web of connivance and deceit, confusion and intrigue. Making a straight path for yourself in such a place is near impossible: even the most upright man can find himself fatally compromised.

I pace fretfully to the back of the shop. Boxes containing the spines of porcupines and the eyelashes of mice (those belonging to male mice in one box; those to female mice in another), antimony, arsenic and gold dust; dried chameleons, hedgehogs, serpents and salamanders. Charms against the evil eye; love potions; titbits to draw
djinns
as surely as sugar draws wasps. As I make my way along the dusty back wall, I am confronted by an enormous glass jar full of eyeballs. Recoiling, I catch my hip on the shelving and the jar wobbles dangerously, setting its contents jiggling, till they all appear to be staring at me, as if I have woken a host of trapped djinns. Then I realize the angle of the shelf shifted when I banged into it. I set the linen-wrapped Qur'an down carefully beside me and adjust the shelf so that the jar sits more safely, and applaud myself for averting disaster. I wonder how Sidi Kabour has procured so many human eyeballs, but then realize the pupils are vertical slots, like those of the eyes of cats, or goats.