The Love Slave (34 page)

Qabiha took up residence in her son-in-law’s villa. Her daughter looked angry and sullen upon her arrival. Qabiha slapped her and said harshly, “You will no longer have your father to condone your bad behavior, girl. He may protest to the contrary and declare his innocence of the matter, but he knew what you were doing when you would ride off into the hills.
He knew!
Yet he placed you in this position for the sake of three thousand gold dinars and the chance to ally himself with the princely family of this city. You had best pray to Allah, my daughter, that you are not with child by Ali Hassan. If you are, your father will kill you. I cannot protect you from him in this matter. What else can he possibly do with a daughter who has brought such shame upon her family, and still retain his own honor? You are fortunate in your husband, Hatiba, if indeed he remains your husband. If you are not with child, he says he will keep you. I cannot imagine any other man being so generous.”

“Generous?” Hatiba sneered. “He loves another he cannot have, Mother. My lost virtue means nothing to him. If he keeps me, it is for his benefit, not mine. He will never love me.”

The days passed quickly by. Karim rode with his two brothers and a group of friends most mornings, hunting in the fields and hills about the city. In the afternoons he visited Hatiba, always in her mother’s presence. He discovered she was an appallingly ignorant girl. She could not read or write. She had no ear for music. When he brought tutors in to help educate her, she grew quickly bored and wept.

“She has absolutely no attention span, my lord,” the tutor he
respected most told him, speaking for them all. “She cannot be taught, but worse, she does not want to learn.”

Afterward Karim groaned to himself, wondering what they would possibly have in common if she remained his wife. He found she was an enthusiastic game player, however. She played both chess and backgammon with a childish zeal, wagering wildly, clapping her hands gleefully if she won, pouting if she lost. It was something. He remembered his brother Ja’far’s advice to get her with child and then find some exotic creature to start his harem. He sighed sadly. He didn’t want a harem of exotic females, or a wife named Hatiba who was already proving more trouble than she was worth. He wanted Zaynab, and he would never have her. She was beyond his reach forever.

Finally the waiting period was at an end. Hatiba had bled twice since their wedding day, Dr. Sulayman coming to examine her during each cycle to be certain there was no fraud. Now the physician declared his wife not with child.

“You may enter her without fear, my lord. Any issue she produces in the next year will be your child without a doubt. She is healthy, and free of disease. She should prove a good breeder.”

Karim sent his mother-in-law back to the mountains. He dismissed his wife’s serving women for the next few days. He entered his wife’s apartments, where Hatiba awaited him. There was no turning back. No excuse for putting her aside. It was time to begin his life anew.

Cha
p
ter 12

“D
rink this, my lady Zaynab,” the physician Hasdai ibn Shaprut said, his arm bracing her, his other hand holding a cup to her lips.

“What is it?” she asked him weakly. Her head ached so.

“More of the antidote I have been giving you. It is called theriaca. Allow me to reassure you that you are going to be all right,” the doctor told her. “We are fortunate you reacted so quickly to the poison you were given. It allowed us to diagnose you and save you.”

“
Poison?
” A look of shock crossed her beautiful face. “I was poisoned? I do not remember. Who would poison me?” Zaynab asked, confused. How could she have made so strong an enemy so quickly?

“We do not know the culprit yet,” the caliph answered her, “but if I find out who it is, she will die the very death she planned for you, my love.” His face was grim with anger and frustration. His harem had over four thousand women in it: his wives, his concubines, those who hoped to gain his favor, his female relations, and their servants. It was impossible to keep track of them all. The assassin had been very clever. It was most unlikely they would ever find out who it was.

“How was I poisoned?” Zaynab queried Hasdai ibn Shaprut. “Is my poor Naja all right? He tastes everything I eat or drink.”

“Other than the fact your eunuch is beside himself with worry and remorse, he is fine,” the physician assured her. “The poison was ingrained into a shawl you wore. It seeped into your skin. It should have worked gradually, over a period of time, but instead the first time you wore it you reacted violently.
You are obviously very sensitive to foreign substances, my lady, and a good thing too.” He turned to his assistant. “Rebekah, show the lady Zaynab the shawl.”

The older woman opened a metal container and displayed the contents.

“Who gave you this shawl, lady?” Hasdai ibn Shaprut asked her. “If you can remember, perhaps we will have our culprit. Do not touch it, I beg you. It is quite lethal, and must be destroyed. Just look.”

Zaynab looked at the shawl. It was a particularly lovely fabric: a light, soft wool, dyed a rich rose color, with a fringe of even deeper pink. She had absolutely no idea where it had come from, and looked to Oma, who shook her head in bewilderment.

“It was not among the garments you brought from Malina,” Oma said. “Remember this morning we were looking in the trunk for a shawl because the day was proving to be chilly? It was simply there on top of all the others. I did not stop to think where it had come from. I thought perhaps our lord, the caliph, had given it to you.”

“Lady, I must ask this question,” the physician said. “Can you trust your maidservant?”

Zaynab was outraged. “How dare you?” she said icily. “I would trust Oma with my life, sir. She is with me by choice. I offered to free her and send her back to Alba. She refused. She even refused to marry Alaeddin ben Omar because she would not leave me.” Zaynab reached out for her friend, and Oma, tears in her eyes, took her hand. “Oma is faithful. She would not harm me.”

“Lady, I beg your pardon, but I had to ask,” the physician said.

“Can she travel?” the caliph interjected, surprising them all.

“Where would you take her, my lord?” Hasdai asked.

“Al-Rusafa. She will be safe there while she recuperates,” the caliph replied. “We will travel in stages, first to the Alcazar in Cordoba, and then the next day to al-Rusafa.”

“Yes,” the physician said thoughtfully, “yes, that would be a good idea, my lord. At al-Rusafa you can control her situation
much better. Is the palace still habitable? You have not been there since the court removed to Madinat al-Zahra.”

“I shall keep her in a little summerhouse in the gardens that is quite habitable. It will not be the first time I have taken a pretty girl there,” Abd-al Rahman said with twinkling eyes. “It is peaceful there,” he amended, a bit more soberly.

“All her clothing will have to be burned,” the physician decreed, “and her jewelry boiled in vinegar. We cannot be certain that the poison has not been infused into other of her possessions.”

The caliph saw the storm building in Zaynab’s eyes, and quickly said, “I will have a brand-new wardrobe made for you, my love. Besides, I like you best as nature has fashioned you. There is none fairer than you, my darling Zaynab. I thank Allah that you were not taken from me.”

“Oh, my lord, you are so good to me,” she answered him sweetly, but she was both angry and frightened at the same time. Iniga had warned her of such things as poison, but she hadn’t taken her friend seriously.

Hasdai ibn Shaprut thought to himself that the caliph was falling in love with her, or at least believed he was. In the few years he had known Abd-al Rahman, he had never seen him act this way with a woman. What had begun as blind lust was softening as his master learned more of the Love Slave than just her nubile body. As for Zaynab herself, the physician did not believe she was in love with the caliph. She respected him, was perhaps a trifle afraid of him, and might harbor a small affection for him, but love? No. Whether she was even capable of love he could not ascertain, not knowing her well enough. Did a female trained to lead such an unnatural existence really know how to love? It was a challenging conundrum.

She was frankly the most beautiful female the physician had ever seen. He understood the caliph’s fascination with her youth and beauty. Zaynab was the love of Abd-al Rahman’s old age as Abishag had been the last love of King David. He would probably get a final child on her. Even though he was over fifty, the caliph was yet potent, as the existence of his two youngest sons proved.

*    *    *

“How is she?” the lady Zahra asked Hasdai ibn Shaprut. She had requested that he come to her apartments before he departed the harem. “What was the matter with her? Is she with child?”

“Someone tried to poison her,” the physician said quietly. “The caliph is very angry. Fortunately, I was able to save her.” And why is the caliph’s first wife concerned? he wondered. Zahra did not usually bother with those she felt beneath her.

“Then she will live,” Zahra said calmly. “He is too old for such a plaything, you must agree, but will he listen to me? No! It would have been better if he had given her to Hakam, do you not think, my lord?”

“I think my master, the caliph, is happy with the lady Zaynab. I think him fit enough to indulge his passions with a beautiful girl,” Hasdai ibn Shaprut answered her. He had never before seen the lady Zahra exhibit such rancor. Why was she jealous? Her own position was secure, as was that of her eldest son.

“
Men!” Zahra
said disgustedly to the caliph’s second wife, Tarub, after the physician had left. “They are all alike! Our lord endangers his health with that girl. He does not think of his value to al-Andalus.”

“If he is happy,” Tarub said wisely, “is he not of greater value to al-Andalus? What do you have against Zaynab that your jealousy burns so hot? None of the others have ever caused you to turn a hair, Zahra. From the beginning this girl has been mannerly, and has politely deferred to you. She causes no dissensions among the other harem women. Indeed, she keeps more to herself than any I have ever known. I have heard no complaint against her, nor would she appear to have any fault that should distress you. Why do you dislike her so?” asked Tarub, a Galacian whose once red hair was now faded.

“I do not dislike her,” Zahra protested. “I am simply concerned over our dear lord’s health.” The first wife was a Catalan, from a country known for the intellects of its people. It had been that which had first attracted Abd-al Rahman to Zahra.

“It is not
his
health that is in question,” Tarub said with some small humor. “It is poor Zaynab who was poisoned.”

“He loves her,” Zahra almost whispered.

“Ahh, so that is it,” her companion replied. “Oh, Zahra, what matter if he loves her? He loves me, and you are not the least jealous. He loves all the charming and not so charming concubines who have given him children, particularly Bacea and Qumar. You are hot jealous of them in the least. If he loves Zaynab, he loves you better. Indeed he loves you best of all. He always has. Did he not name a city for you?
Madinat al-Zahra
. How marvelous that a man of Abd-al Rahman’s age can still find new love!” She laughed.

“Praise Allah for it! We came to Abd-al Rahman at the same time, you and I. How many years ago was it? We were young girls. Your son was born but two months ahead of mine. I do not curse Allah that it happened that way. I rejoice in my children and my grandchildren. I accept that time has passed. You seem unable to do that, Zahra. It is growing worse for you with each year. You are no longer a girl. You never will be again. I think your jealousy lies not so much in that Abd-al loves Zaynab, but that she is young and extravagantly beautiful. You cannot change that any more than you can change the fact that you are past forty.”

“You are cruel!” Zahra cried, tears springing to her eyes.

“I am honest with you as I have always been, dearest friend,” Tarub replied. “I tell you that our husband will always love you best, Zahra, no matter who else he may love as well. Accept that truth and let your anger and your jealousy die, lest in the end they kill you, or the abiding love that Abd-al Rahman has for you. Will you throw away all those happy years?”

Zahra did not reply, but rather she turned her head away from her friend. Was Tarub right? she wondered. Or was her fellow wife simply saying those things to soothe her feelings? Abd-al Rahman did not seem to rely upon her as he once did. She remembered when his oldest concubine had died. The lady Aisha had been the first woman he had ever known. She had been older than he was.

Aisha was a gift from the old emir Abdallah, the caliph’s grandfather, who had raised him. Abd-al Rahman had genuinely
liked her. She had initiated him into the erotic arts, but she had also become his trusted friend as well. Long after they ceased their amatory adventures, he regularly visited her apartments, and he held her in the highest esteem. When Aisha had died, she directed that her vast fortune be used to ransom men and women of Islam held captive in Christian lands. So few were found that Abd-al Rahman was at a loss as to what to do with Aisha’s monies. Whatever he did, he wanted it to be something Aisha would have approved. It was Zahra who had suggested that he build a new city.