Chapter Zaynab
Zaynab
The journey west and then south to Aghmat is a torture to me.
My feet blister from the distances I walk.
Few people will give a lift to a woman dressed in rags with a vacant face, who smells of smoke.
I frighten them. I have a little money to pay for simple food when I find vendors along the way, but not enough for a place to rest my head when the nights fall, so I sleep in fields or ditches by the side of the road.
I see the moon grow fat and thin again and my pace slows, for my feet bleed.
I could stop somewhere to let them heal but I am afraid that my money will run out.
I stick to the main roads, where caravans of traders pass me by with indifference, but their very presence keeps me safe from bandits and allows me to know that I am travelling in the right direction.
A few times a trader allows me to sit on one of their carts or on an under-loaded camel and I bless them in a voice that comes out as a croak, I speak so little.
They nod warily at the blessing but I can see that my presence makes them uncomfortable and they are glad when they can leave me behind again.
When they ask where I am headed, I tell them that I am going to Aghmat, to serve the queen there and they raise their eyebrows at the idea of a crone like myself serving Queen Zaynab, famed for her beauty and for the prophecy that her husband will one day command all of the Maghreb.
***
Aghmat is a famous city, one that grows with every year that passes.
It is a stronghold, a shining jewel along the trade routes.
It is one of the first stops when traders return over the treacherous mountains from the desert tribes or the Dark Kingdom in the south.
It is their last stop to take on water and food before attempting the desert when they bring goods from the far-off lands in the north, across the sea.
Caravans of more than a hundred camels are a matter of course here, carrying salt, gold, silver, the finest cloth—not only wool and linen but silks and those which have been embroidered or woven with golden threads.
Delicate glass, sturdy metal, carved wood.
As I draw closer, I am joined by local farmers and traders on the path to the city walls, bearing oranges, sugar cane, little cakes and pastries, live animals for slaughter.
Their baskets and carts make me feel faint with hunger.
What food I have eaten along the journey has been the cheapest I could buy: stale bread, scraps of vegetables, worm-eaten fruits.
No meat, no sweets. My belly has not been full for a long time.
As I enter the city, I pass many food stalls but I have no money. I must find Zaynab.
At last, the gates of the palace rise above me. I rest for a moment, tears of relief rising up in me.
The guards are unimpressed when I ask for entry.
“You most certainly cannot see the queen,” says one, “Be off with you.”
“She knows my name,” I tell him. “She will reward you for allowing me into her presence.”
“I doubt it,” says the other one.
I scrabble through my dirty bag and hold out the cup. “Give this to Zaynab and tell her that Hela is here to serve her,” I tell the first guard.
“Fuck off,” says the guard and he shoves my shoulder so hard that I fall to the ground.
I look up at him and begin to mumble something. It is only the names of plants, of medicines from far away, but he goes pale, for he thinks I am cursing him.
“All right, all right, crone,” he says, blustering but afraid. “Give it here.”
***
I must shuffle into the throne room, for my feet hurt so badly I cannot bear to lift them up and set them down.
She is here. Beautiful beyond words, lovelier than Djalila but somehow just as sad.
She looks at me in fear, perhaps because of the news I bring, perhaps because of my appearance.
And she feared me anyway, as a child, she could not see that those about her were scarred from love, she only saw that there was no love given to her and so she sought it elsewhere.
And her attempt failed somehow, Yusuf has given her to his king, a man broad in the chest and dressed with magnificence but with something about him that I do not like the feel of.
“You will live here, in the palace,” decrees Luqut, once I have told him all I know of Zaynab’s loss.
“I beg to live quietly in the city,” I ask. “But I will willingly serve the Queen.” I do not want to be too close to this man, to the darkness that hangs over Zaynab, whatever it is.
Luqut shrugs. “As you wish,” he says. “A place will be found for you.” He calls over an official, speaks briefly with him, nods.
I wait for Zaynab to speak but she says nothing, she only looks at me with her black eyes.
“You will attend Zaynab this evening,” decrees Luqut. He indicates a senior-looking official. “Meanwhile you will follow him to your new home.”
I shuffle after him. He walks too fast for my blistered feet but we do not go far from the palace. Just outside its walls is a tiny street, almost hidden.
The official stops outside a blue-painted door. He does not bother to show me in, only indicates it with his chin. “Belongs to the king, he says you are to have it now.” He hands me a small pouch, which chinks.
I wait for him to enter the house before me but he is already striding away.
The door is small, old, the blue paint thick in its cracks and crevices, as though it has been painted many times. I push against it and it opens with a shudder.
It is a strange little house. There is dust everywhere and no sign of furniture, as though it has been stripped bare at some point in the past. There are only two rooms, each one a little crooked, the walls not smooth.
But it has beautiful tiles on the floor and someone has added carved plasterwork to the uneven ceiling, as though the person who lived here before me was both poor and esteemed.
There is a tight staircase, which I follow, its walls rough clay, not even painted, but when I reach the top, I find myself standing on a small rooftop terrace.
It is empty save for a tattered cloth still clinging to two lopsided wooden poles, the remnants of an awning.
I could walk the length and breadth of the space in only five steps either way.
I stand for a few moments, looking about me at the rooftops around me.
Many are taller than mine of course, I cannot see very far across the city.
I retrace my steps back to the dark rooms below and place my small bundle on the floor.
I look in the small pouch. The money Luqut has given me is generous.
I shuffle my way into the bright light of the afternoon to seek out what items I will have need of here.
I find a street boy who I pay well to be my guide in this new place and to carry my purchases: a full water jug, cooking utensils and a small brush for sweeping away the dust, blankets, a fresh robe, a bag in which I can carry my belongings, sandals, a cloth to wrap up my hair.
I make arrangements with local tradesmen to make me a simple bed, to deliver a large storage jar for water, firewood, to come and make a new awning on my tiny rooftop.
I buy food from the street vendors near the blue house and sit on the doorstep to eat, the boy wolfing his portion down in moments.
“Here,” I tell him, passing him another coin. “Buy sweet pastries.”
He is gone and back in moments and we eat our fill, honey dripping onto our chins, our fingers sticky.
My belly aches with fullness, a pain I am grateful for.
I pour a little water on both our hands and we drink it, cold and refreshing.
The boy’s last task is to take me to the hammam, where I bid him farewell, though I am sure he will loiter about my new home on a regular basis now that he knows me as a potential source of both food and coin.
***
I stand in the blue doorway. My body is cleaner than it has been for a very long time.
My hair is wrapped in a cloth; my robe and shoes are stiff with newness.
My feet still hurt but I put a healing balm on them and wrapped them in clean cloths, they will mend.
The bag I carry contains a few ingredients I chose from the market and the cup.
I did not hesitate to take it with me. It was returned to me at the moment when I accepted my fate, it is a sign.
I begin my walk to the palace, for darkness is beginning to fall.
***
When I arrive Zaynab is surrounded by other servants.
“You may all go,” I say.
They look to her for confirmation and she hesitates before nodding.
They leave the room looking back over their shoulders.
Who am I, to arrive in the morning and become their queen’s chosen handmaiden by the evening?
I do not pay attention to them. I am used to being regarded with suspicion. Instead, I look at Zaynab.
“Why did you come here?” she asks. It is the first time I have heard her voice since she left her parents’ home.
“Kairouan burnt to the ground,” I say.
“You could have gone anywhere,” she says.
“I owe your family a debt,” I say.
“What debt?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Should I prepare you for the King?” I ask.
I feel the darkness well up in her. “He will prepare me himself,” she says and walks away, into another room. I follow her.
The edges of this room are dark. Only the centre gleams in the light of lanterns, their red-gold light shining on polished metal, on the surface of well-worn leather, on the silken ripples of Zaynab’s long hair.
I look at what is laid out here and when Zaynab turns I meet her gaze in silence.
Then I hear footsteps and move behind a wall hanging.
She watches me hide and says nothing, only turns to face Luqut as he enters the room.
He orders her to undress and she does so, her robes slipping to the ground.
He touches her where he has touched her before, admiring his handiwork, the damage he has done to her skin, rubbing a thumb over each bruise and scar as though it brings him pleasure even now.
His large hand grips her throat and forces her chin upwards while his other hand bears down on her shoulder. She sinks to her knees before him.
She does not speak when she is spoken to, she does not beg for mercy when he selects his tools. She is strong, she bears what he does to her longer than I would have thought possible before she cries out and when she does, I think, you will die for this, Luqut.
He leaves her on the floor afterwards, her body crumpled as though she had fallen from some great height.
I wait until his footsteps are far away and then I blow out all the lanterns except one and I tend to her in its dimness.
She does not weep, she does not speak, only looks at me when I help her to stand.
“I am here now,” I say.
I can see that it is not enough, that she does not trust me, does not believe that my being here can bring about any change in her circumstances.
I do not try to convince her. I go over his work with my own, covering each bruise with simple unguents.
Now that I am here, I will need to make my own, they will be better than the ones I bought in the market.
When I am done, I lead her to bed and cover her body with blankets.
I ask her a few questions although I am fairly sure of the answers already.
I see her eyes well up and think, she is still a child.
Married twice, a queen and still a child. I wait for a moment.
“I heard about your vision. Every ambitious man in the Maghreb wanted you for a wife when they heard about it.”
I see tears trickling but she does not answer.
“Do you often have visions?”
She does not answer. I already knew it was a lie. I wait in silence for a moment and then I leave her. I pass the servants, the guards. Evidently my name is already known, for no-one bars my way nor questions who I am.