The Love Slave (38 page)

But the caliph was delighted that his favorite was expecting his child. He knew it had been conceived in that last passionate night they had spent in the summerhouse at al-Rusafa. The child would be born next summer. When Zaynab’s symptoms became unmistakable, he had called upon Hasdai ibn Shaprut to be certain that Zaynab was healthy and that the child would come to term. It would have been a scandal, had the doctor not been brought into the harem in secret. He came accompanied by his female assistant, Rebekah, and the caliph himself.

“You are with child,” he said to Zaynab. It was not a question.

“So I believe, my lord doctor,” she answered.

“Tell me the signs that indicate this to you,” he said.

“My link with the moon has been broken,” she began. “I am nauseous much of the time. Strong smells, particularly that of food cooking, give me a headache. My breasts are beginning to ache all the time, and the nipples are very, very tender; so much so that my lord cannot touch them any longer without giving me pain.”

Hasdai nodded to himself, and Rebekah handed Zaynab a small glass bowl. “You must pee into it,” she instructed the patient. “My lord Hasdai needs to examine your urine.”

Zaynab went behind a screen, with Oma holding the bowl. A few moments later Oma emerged and handed the bowl to the doctor. Zaynab came back and settled herself into a comfortable chair with a wide leather seat, watching.

Hasdai ibn Shaprut held up the deep crystal bowl and peered closely at it. “Her urine is almost perfectly clear, my lord,” he said, “but you will note the faint, almost imperceptible cloudiness beginning.” Lowering his head, he sniffed strongly. “Healthy,” he commented. Then dipping his finger into the glass bowl, he tasted it. “Healthy,” he said. “A faint sweetness, but healthy.” Turning to the caliph, he said, “I would like your permission to examine her briefly, my lord.”

The caliph nodded. “You may touch her, Hasdai. I know that you are not lustful.”

The physician acknowledged his master’s words, saying to Zaynab, “Hold out your hands for me, lady,” and when she did, he looked carefully at them. “Her hands are not swollen, a good sign,” he told them. “Her nails are healthy, not blue, the little moons white, as they should be.” Then he said, “I must ask you to come out and lie down, lady.” When she did so, he gently palpated her belly. Satisfied, he thanked her and then said to the caliph, “She is positively with child, my lord, and healthy, in my opinion. She is broad in the hips and should give birth easily.”

“I am not broad in the hips!” Zaynab said indignantly, sitting up again. “I am a slender girl, as my lord can attest.”

“I chose the words badly, my lady,” Hasdai said. “The space between your hipbones is not narrow, which is a good sign.”

“Indeed,” Zaynab replied irritably.

“You are slim as a young nymph,” the caliph told her indulgently, an amused smile upon his face.

“You mock me!” Zaynab cried, and burst into tears.

“Irrational behavior, another sign that a woman is breeding,” Hasdai ibn Shaprut said dryly. “Emotions run high at a time like this.”

“See my learned physician friend and his assistant out, Naja,” the caliph said solemnly, struggling to keep his laughter in check. He enfolded his beloved in his arms. “There, my love, do not weep. I adore you, Zaynab, and we shall have the most beautiful child. I pray Allah will bless us with a daughter who is as beautiful as her beautiful mother. We shall call her Moraima.”

“We will?” She sniffled against his shoulder. His strong arms were comforting, and she nestled against him.

“Yes, we will, my love,” he said quietly, kissing her soft lips.

The door closed behind the others.

Lifting her up, the caliph laid her upon her bed. Kneeling next to her, he undid the buttons upon her caftan and stroked her breasts. “You are so beautiful, Zaynab,” he told her tenderly, kissing her faintly rounded belly. “I love you, and I love our child.”

Winter came, to be followed by a bright spring and early summer. Zaynab’s belly grew swollen with her child. To everyone’s surprise, the caliph did not lose interest in his beautiful concubine. Indeed, his passion for her seemed to deepen with each passing day.

“I believe he will make her his third wife,” Tarub said to Zahra. They were barely speaking, but with uncharacteristic meanness, Tarub wanted to hurt Zahra. She had not forgotten the other woman’s cruelty. “He is more interested in this child than any of the others he has had.”

“She could perish in childbirth,” Zahra said coldly. “She is small-boned and undoubtedly weak. Or,” she smiled cruelly, “the child could die shortly after its birth.”

“The caliph would not like to hear you threatening either his beloved or their child,” Tarub replied, smiling back at Zahra. “It is careless of you to do so in the presence of someone Abd-al Rahman would believe, Zahra. Your unreasonable jealousy makes you incautious.”

“He will never take her as his wife,” Zahra said, though she was less than certain.

Tarub laughed mockingly, and left Zahra to her black thoughts.

Midway through the month of Muharram, which in Christian Europe would have been the end of July, Zaynab went into labor. The birthing chair, gilded and bejeweled, was brought into the Court of the Green Columns. Although they were not allowed inside, many harem women gathered in the courtyard to await word. Tarub came in the company of the caliph’s concubines Qumar and Bacea, who were also mothers of Abd-al Rahman’s children, to attend Zaynab. Naja admitted them, bowing respectfully. Qumar was a Persian, known for her healthy progeny. Bacea was a red-haired Galacian, mother of the caliph’s youngest son, Murad. Both concubines were in their mid-twenties.

“Are your pains hard yet?” Tarub’s motherly face showed her concern.

“She looks strong,” Qumar said cheerfully. “She will birth her child well, I can tell.”

“You must not be afraid,” Bacea told the younger girl. “Birth is a natural function of the female body. We will be with you to help you. I have a son and a daughter, and Qumar has a son and two daughters. Do you want more children after this one?”

“What a question to ask a woman in labor!” Qumar laughed. “Bacea is a pretty girl, but Galacians are not too intelligent.”

“And Persians are?” Bacea shot back. “You didn’t even know you were with child the first time.” She laughed, and then said, “I will admit the timing of my question is poor, however.”

“Be silent, the two of you,” Tarub scolded them. “You chatter like magpies. We must help Zaynab to birth her baby successfully.”

The subject of their concern gasped as a strong pain swept over her. “
Allah!
” she cried.

“That is good!” Tarub said piously. “Call upon God, and He will deliver you, and your child.”

The two concubines swallowed their laughter, their eyes
meeting Zaynab’s. It had been a long time since Tarub had birthed anything. She had obviously forgotten that the laboring woman’s cry was more an imprecation than a prayer.

“This is the price we pay for all that sweetness,” Bacea said, a twinkle in her hazel eyes, and Zaynab was forced to grin.

“I will know better next time.” She giggled, and then groaned again as pain washed over her.

For the next several hours they alternately cajoled and encouraged her in her labor. Qumar, being more supple than Tarub, knelt and spread a layer of cloth beneath the birthing chair where Zaynab now sat. Outside her bedchamber the caliph waited in the company of Hasdai ibn Shaprut, whom he had called in case of any emergency. The physician was not needed, however. A cry was heard from within, and shortly thereafter Tarub, her face wreathed in smiles, came forth from the chamber, a swaddled bundle in her arms.

“My lord husband,” she said, “here is your daughter, the princess Moraima. Zaynab is well, and hopes you are pleased.”

Qumar and Bacea now joined Tarub, each smiling and cooing over the child.

The caliph took his new daughter in the presence of his wife, his two concubines, and Hasdai ibn Shaprut. Cradling the baby gently, he looked down upon her. To his delight, the infant gazed back solemnly at him from serious blue eyes. The down upon her head was her mother’s pale gold in color. “I accept this child as my own blood, my daughter,” Abd-al Rahman said in a strong voice to his witnesses. Then carrying the baby, he entered Zaynab’s bedchamber. He knelt by her bedside. “You have done well, my dearest love,” he told the exhausted girl. “I have formally recognized our daughter before witnesses. Now none will doubt her paternity, and none shall have her to wife but the finest prince, when she is old enough,” he told Zaynab. “Sleep now.”

Rising, he handed the baby to Oma and left his favorite’s apartments.

Zaynab lay exhausted, yet awake. She had a daughter, and the child was a princess. She wondered whether Gruoch had borne a son or a daughter, and if there had been other children
since. Wouldn’t her twin be amazed to know that the sister she had known as Regan was not moldering away in a convent, but the pampered concubine of a great ruler, and the mother of a princess.
And Karim
 … Why on earth had she thought of
him
? She had kept him successfully from her mind these past months, but now suddenly he was there. Would he learn she had borne the caliph a daughter? Was he a father himself, by the wife he had returned to Malina to wed? Of course he was. What would her life have been like had she been that bride instead of Abd-al Rahman’s Love Slave? It was useless to think such thoughts. She would sleep, and when she awoke, it would be all the same. She would be the caliph’s adored favorite, the mother of his daughter, and Karim al Malina would be but a memory. A single tear slipped down her cheek. She would never love Abd-al Rahman, but she would honor and respect the caliph, and he would never know her true feelings. Turning her face to the wall, she willed herself into a slumber.

“She could only give him a puny daughter,” Zahra sneered when she later met Tarub in the baths.

“They wanted a daughter,” Tarub said sweetly. “They had her named months ago. They never even considered a son. It should please you, Zahra. Now you do not have to worry that Zaynab’s child will supplant Hakam.” Laughing, she went on her way.

Despite Zahra’s dislike of Zaynab, the caliph’s goodwill meant more to the women of the harem than the first wife’s ire. They sensed Zahra’s star was finally waning. They flocked to the Court of the Green Columns, bringing their gifts to the new princess, who was admired by all and praised mightily. Even Prince Hakam came to visit his new sister, bringing a small silver ball that was filled with bells to amuse the baby.

“I have no children of my own,” he explained to Zaynab, “but I do remember having a toy like this one when I was small. I loved it.” He smiled warmly at her, and when she smiled back at him, giving him her thanks, Hakam understood why his father loved her. He pitied his poor mother. Zahra might have been the love of Abd-al Rahman’s youth, but there
was no doubt in the prince’s mind that Zaynab was the love of his sire’s later years. She was a delightful girl. “My sister Moraima will always have my affection, and the security of my protection, lady,” he told her.

Tarub, of course, rubbed salt into Zahra’s wounds by telling her former friend of the prince’s visit. “I believe Hakam is as charmed by Zaynab as is the caliph,” she said with a false smile. “The whole harem is, you know.”

Zahra said nothing, but she was amazed at the depth of Tarub’s venom. She had always thought the second wife a simple plump fool, but it was obvious that she was not. She was a very dangerous bitch. If the caliph made Zaynab his third wife, as was rumored throughout the harem, then together the two of them would become a force to be reckoned with. Tarub’s son, Abdallah, was Abd-al Rahman’s second son. What if these two women worked in concert to supplant Hakam? She had no proof of such a scheme, but she did not need it. It would have been what she would have done had her position and Tarub’s been reversed.

The new favorite suddenly sickened, as did her child and her waiting woman. Normally the baby would have been sent to a baby farm to be nursed, so that the Love Slave could again serve her master, but such a thing was anathema to Zaynab. The women of Alba, even the highborn women, did not farm their infants out as a general rule. She had begged the caliph to be allowed to keep Moraima with her for a few months before a wet nurse would be brought into the Court of the Green Columns. It had pleased Abd-al Rahman to grant her request. He liked sitting by her side as she nursed their child It made him feel like an ordinary man, if only for a short time. But now Zaynab, Moraima, and Oma were sickening.

Hasdai ibn Shaprut was called in, for poison was immediately suspected. The only two members of the favorite’s household not to grow ill were Naja and Aida, the cook, which naturally set the suspicion upon them. The physician, however, gained some measure of Zaynab’s favor by immediately ruling
out the poor eunuch, who was terrified by the turn of events, and Aida, whose loyalty was simply too strong.

“Too obvious,” the physician said. “It is something that the lady Zaynab and Oma alone share. The little princess is being poisoned through her mother’s milk. She must be sent away if she is to be saved.”

Weeping, Zaynab gave her daughter over to the physician’s assistant, Rebekah. “Do not fear, great lady,” Rebekah said. She was a mother herself, and Zaynab’s devotion to her child had already gained her approval. “I have an excellent wet nurse in the Jewish quarter. She is a big, healthy girl with more milk than her own child can consume. She will care for our little princess as if she were her own child, and you may see her any time you so desire.”

“Why can this woman not come here?” Zaynab sobbed.

“Because,” Hasdai ibn Shaprut explained patiently to her, “whatever is causing you and Oma to sicken could cause the wet nurse to sicken also. Until I find the cause, we must protect your child.”

“Yes, yes!” Zaynab agreed, and turned to the caliph. “Oh, my dear lord, do not let anything happen to our child! She is all I have, and I will die if anything should take her from me forever!”