The Steel Seraglio (26 page)

Issi himself, notwithstanding his antipathy to Zuleika, found many of the women very good company. Bethi the serving girl made him laugh with her dirty songs, and he often gossiped with her about the scandals and secrets of the servants they had left behind them in Bessa. For Zeinab he had an almost fatherly affection. She had a remarkable memory for the routes she had taken with her father on his trading journeys, and Issi had started to teach her the markers and layouts of the other trading routes he was familiar with, as well as the trails to Galal-Amin and Jawahir along which he used to drive his camels as a younger man. She listened to his recollections with real interest, asking lots of questions and making him sketch out the paths he described in the sand whenever they stopped to rest. Privately, Issi thought she had more potential as a camel-driver than any of his own boys. Her daughter Soraya had started coming to him and begging for piggybacks. All things considered, his loyalties, and those of his men, lay more with those who were now their travelling companions than with the new ruler they had left behind. Still, he felt he must speak up.

“My men and I have families back in Bessa,” he pointed out, “and the camels you speak of belong to the sultan. If we return home with fewer than we started out with, what are we going to tell him when he asks what has become of his livestock?”

“You forget, Issi, you are travelling with murderers and fugitives now.” Umayma, who sat at Issi’s side, flashed him a slightly frightening smile. “We dispatched Hakkim Mehdad’s soldiers; I doubt he’ll have trouble believing that we stole a few of his camels into the bargain.”

That silenced Issi, though it left him wondering anew that such beautiful women could be so perverse and unnatural in their behaviour.

“Even if we sold all of them,” Zuleika said, “they wouldn’t fetch enough. We need something else.”

There was silence at that. Then, a bandit stood up and eyed the group awkwardly, going red under Zuleika’s quizzical gaze. “Well, it probably hasn’t occurred to ladies of your pedigree, but me and the lads have some—well—we have some less—umm—legitimate ways of making money.”

The suggestion was met with howls of outrage. He sat down again hurriedly.

“We appreciate the offer,” Gursoon addressed him with stony dignity, “but the crimes we have committed were forced upon us. We’re dealing now with choices, and I doubt that any of us would choose to save ourselves by attacking and despoiling others.”

Sitting beside the humiliated bandit, Anwar Das put his head in his hands.

“Increate preserve us, Rahid,” he muttered, “now is not the time to be reminding everyone of why we’re not to be trusted. We need to direct their attention elsewhere.” Suddenly, his eyes lit up. He considered a moment, head on one side, and leapt to his feet.

“How many of you know how to weave?” he asked. There were confused looks, then all of the servants and most of the concubines raised their hands.

“Good! Then I think I see something you can do. Both Zeinab and Zuleika have spoken with wisdom. Selling a camel or two would raise you some money, but not enough to buy all the provisions you need. The thing about money is that it is shy and skittish, like a jerboa. It won’t come of its own accord; it must be coaxed from its hiding places, and it is rarely at ease unless it is surrounded by more of its kind. You shouldn’t squander what little you can make from the camels on provisions, you should use it to lure more money in. If you spend it on a few reels of thread, some weaving tablets, and a loom, then you can make tapestries, woven belts and bracelets, and sell them in Agorath. The money from the camels will vanish as soon as it is spent, but you can keep weaving until you have enough to fund a journey to the ends of the earth!”

Anwar Das had hit upon an ideal plan, and the group rippled with approving murmurs and nods as he spoke. When he finished, there was a flurry of voices. Warudu, one of the older women in the Seraglio, exclaimed with some excitement, “Why stop at weaving? I can whittle some of those little wooden animals that I make sometimes for my sons. They’re not much, I know, but they would probably fetch a few dirhams.”

Maysoon got up next. “My father is a potter,” she said, in her quiet, accented voice. “If we buy some clay, I can make bowls and jugs as well, and I’d be happy to teach others the craft.”

Farhat listened to the chorus of eager voices uneasily. She was thinking of her mysterious conversation with the sick woman, Rem, when she was raving from the heat. It felt presumptuous to offer her services as an embroiderer, yet she did have a certain talent—all the women said so. She rose uncertainly to her feet, her face heating under the force of the gazes that turned upon it.

“For what it’s worth, I do a little needlework in my spare time,” she mumbled. Gursoon smiled at her old friend encouragingly.

“I would say more than a little, Farhat. Your skills are admired by us all, and they would be a welcome addition to our efforts”.

In the general hubbub, at first no one noticed the slight figure approaching from the cave mouth. Farhat had left Rem to sleep, judging her too weak still for much exertion. The noise of the group had woken her, however, and she knew already the subject of their discussion. Now she walked slowly, still dizzy from sleep, to the stage.

“Rem!” Gursoon hesitated, then helped the girl up. “Do you have something to say?”

“Yes, lady. It won’t take long, I promise.” Rem turned to face the group, who had quieted in anticipation of her words.

“Most of you don’t yet know me, but believe me when I say that I know all of you better than I know the lines on my own hand. My name is Rem. I give you all my grateful thanks for allowing me to accompany you. Without your kindness I would have died. There isn’t much I can offer you in return, but I heard you all talking about your crafts, and thought of one thing that I might contribute. I’m afraid that it will not make you any money, but I think it valuable nonetheless. I have no skill at weaving or embroidery, but back in Bessa I worked in the library disguised as a boy, and I know how to read and write. I would like to teach any of you who are interested, to make myself useful, if you will permit me.”

There was a buzz of excitement. Few women in Bessa knew how to read, and most of the concubines had simply never thought of it before. With the offer laid before them, however, there came memories of brothers poring over scrolls or sent off to learn under an older scholar, fathers who read aloud in the evenings, older cousins speaking with offhand arrogance about their latest visit to Bessa’s magnificent library. Most had not the faintest idea of how one even went about reading, but suddenly it had all the savour of a forbidden thing.

Zuleika frowned; in her opinion, anything which did not generate money would only serve to distract them all from their immediate and pressing business. But Rem’s idea had stirred a thought in her own mind. She remembered the messenger arriving in the tent, the scroll he read out, the news it contained. If he had not decided to read that scroll aloud, things would have turned out very differently. It discomfited her, even offended her sense of her own professional competences, to think how close they had all come to death. So she answered Rem with a curt nod, rather than the dismissive refusal she had originally intended. “Yes, being able to read might prove useful,” she agreed.

“Then let us carry it so,” Gursoon said, cutting off further discussion. “For now, though, the night is far advanced, and we must rest. Issi, Zeinab, you two should start for Agorath tomorrow at first light to sell the camels and buy everything we need. Keep your heads down, and Zeinab, wear a veil to avoid being recognized. It’s an outside chance, I know, but still possible. Anyone who wants something bought, speak to these two before they leave tomorrow!”

With that, the group dispersed.

The selling of the camels was accomplished without drama or incident, but it was a full week before Issi and Zeinab returned, hot and exhausted but triumphant. They had retained two of the beasts, which were loaded down with the goods they had purchased.

During their absence, Warudu had already cut down one of the stunted wild acacias which grew by the side of the pool next to the cave, and was busy instructing a large group of women in the techniques of carving. A couple of bandits were loitering nearby, trying to overhear as much of her advice as they could without appearing too interested. On the other side of the small valley, Rem was deep in her reading lessons. Anwar Das, Zuleika, and a cluster of others sat in front of her, while she scratched characters in the sand with a sharp stick borrowed from Warudu’s tree. Issi’s men had cut down some more acacias, and were constructing some sort of rough framework of wooden stakes.

“It’s for drying strips of meat,” the chief camel-driver explained to Zeinab when the workers came into view. “They want to go out and hunt oryx tomorrow. Their meat doesn’t taste too bad, and their horns sell like white gold to the ivory traders.”

An air of intense concentration hung over the small groups as they worked, talking quietly amongst themselves. To Rem, it felt as if the silence which had always saturated her library had risen from out the gutted building like a spirit sent forth from a corpse, drifted over the desert till it had found her, and settled where she was.

When she saw Issi and Zeinab approaching, she gestured to her students, and went over with them to unload the camels. Sounds of movement came from the caves as the women sleeping inside woke up and came to help. They emerged stretching into the pleasant evening air, running across the sand with eager voices to greet their friends and ask what success they had had. Through a mixture of Zeinab’s wily haggling and Issi’s stubbornness, the two had managed to return with six reels of thread, a bag of weaving tablets, a block of clay, and some fabric for embroidery, as well as grain to eat. Gursoon grinned at the sight of their haul piled up outside the cave mouth.

“This is impressive! I know camels can go for a high price, but you two have really outdone yourselves. It looks like you brought the entire market home with you!”

It was decided that work would begin in earnest the next day at dawn. Warudu already had her group of carvers, and Issi and his men were going hunting. Umayma declared that she would go with them, causing them to murmur and shift their feet a little uneasily.

“I’m not sure that a hunt is a safe place for a lady—” one of the camel-drivers began. She shot him a fierce glare and he subsided into uncertain mumbling. Then she brandished a long wooden spear in his face, its point wickedly sharp.

“I made it,” she told him smugly, “from the tree Warudu chopped down”. She was immediately surrounded by a small crowd of interested men, examining the spear and nodding approvingly, or offering opinions as to its sharpness and heft.

Maysoon volunteered to teach another group how to shape clay, while Farhat offered to instruct others in the skill of embroidery. Everyone who found that these crafts were not to their liking was laid to the charge of Rihan, the most experienced of the weavers in the seraglio, who agreed to oversee the creation of woven bracelets, belts and tapestries. Gursoon looked on the five groups of assorted women and camel-drivers with satisfaction, then glanced at the bandits, who still loitered sulkily at the edge of the crowd.

“Get over here,” she said sharply. “If you can’t weave, you won’t hunt, and you refuse to try your hands at anything else, then I am sure you can at least cook.”

Anwar Das gave her a lopsided smile. “Nothing could be easier, lady. I feel I should warn you now, however, that when you taste our cooking you will have only yourself to blame.”

For most of the concubines, the days that followed were some of the hardest of their lives. Their tender skin burned, unused to the searing heat. Their hands and feet, soft from lives of comfort and ease, blistered from the strain of endless work: chopping down the scraggly trees around the oasis to get wood for the evening fire and Warudu’s carvings, moving heavy bags of provisions into the cave, butchering the oryxes Issi’s men brought home in the evenings. The weavers’ arms ached from twining thread, and the whittlers cut their fingers when their knives slipped.

The food was dull almost beyond endurance. Tough, chewy oryx meat or maize porridge, more often overcooked than not, and seasoned only with a few wild dates or the bitter, fleshy saltbush leaves that made them all wince with their sharpness.

The days were long. They woke when it was still dark, and their work occupied them until there was no light left in the sky. The heat was terrible during the day, the water strictly rationed, and at night all the warmth seemed to drain out of the air, leaving them freezing cold.

When Farhat had said that there would be no more servants in the desert, Gursoon had envisaged arguments and screaming. In fact, the baking sun wrought a reversal of roles on its own, and with no need for persuasion on her part. The servants had always had to work long hours in the sun; their skin was tanned and their hands tough from it. They were used to toil, so they were the ones who coped best with the unceasing work, the pitiless extremes of heat and cold. Several of the courtesans, as they struggled to carry bags of grain or recoiled at the prospect of cutting up a dead antelope, felt shamed when their own serving maids took up the work without complaint, and completed it more expeditiously.

Where before they had been meek and obedient, now it fell to Bethi, Farhat, Thana and the others to boss and direct, scold and comfort. For the first few days, many of the younger concubines were sure that they were going to die. Fernoush got heatstroke, then Halima, then several others. It began with a pulsing headache behind their eyes, a pain that was both sharp and dull at once, then weakness, numbness, vomiting. The others laid them all in the shade of the cave, looking on with terror while they groaned and thrashed about, weeping piteously.

Anwar Das and Yusuf Razim watched all this for a while, exchanged a few quiet words, then walked over to the oasis. They returned with a handful of wild dates, some salt bush leaves, and a skin of water, and proceeded to mix them together into a concoction that tasted so hideous, many of the girls could hardly bring themselves to swallow it. They all did, however, whereupon Das told them to rest for a few hours, promising that they would soon feel better.