Chapter 1 #3
Late afternoon saw the resurgence of the souk, the dipping of the sun making the heat more bearable as merchants rose from their afternoon slumber, bartering for goods brought in from across the seas, as well as those home grown.
The souk was never allowed to reside in the town square, so instead, stalls were erected in their neighbourhood, lining the main streets and the alleys between their centuries-old homes.
The separation between the northern and southern areas of the citadel meant that guards patrolled the divide.
If a Maghrebi was found trying to cross that invisible divide, then they were interrogated for it.
Unless it was for business, Maghrebis usually found themselves shoved away.
A cart, pulled by a donkey, boasted a mountainful of prickly pears.
With the streets shaded by the canopies set up above the stalls, Aicha walked between traders and merchants, bartering for lower prices.
Before the gates had been shut, and the blockade enforced on the citadel by the Sultan, the souk had boasted an array of goods.
Fruit and meat, newly woven djilabas and gandoras that were cool enough to sleep in, and the occasional livestock.
Aicha’s satchel, slung across her chest, pressed into her tunic.
The sweat beneath seeped into the fabric, and she wiped at her forehead, sending a nod of acknowledgement to a merchant.
For a fraction of a moment, Aicha halted in her steps.
In the distance, among the crowd of market goers and merchants, she saw it.
An unnaturally tall figure, towering above everyone else, dark and simultaneously easy to see through, like smoke.
Just standing there. People walked past it, unaware of its presence.
“Aicha! It is so good to see you, benti!”
The interruption caused Aicha’s gaze to falter, looking to the merchant at a stall just to her right. She smiled, and when she looked back, it was gone. As if she had imagined it.
“Salaam, Sidi Abdelhak,” Aicha greeted, stepping forwards to the stall, and ducking beneath the shade of the canopy. She picked up one of the prickly pears, gripping it a little tightly to gauge its ripeness. “How are the children, and Khadija?”
The old man, Abdelhak, nodded while scratching at his beard.
“They are well. Khadija grows frustrated with my long hours. Claims that I evade the hardest part of parenting.” He threw his hands in the air.
“If I am there she says I am too soft! I spoil them and do not discipline them. If I am gone, she says I do not show them love! Ya wili, tell me which you want!”
Aicha chuckled loudly at Abdelhak’s expression, his frustration and affection over his family etched between his thick brows and in his dark eyes.
“The trick, Sidi Abdelhak, is to find the balance between both.”
“When you have children, you will see that it is not possible.” He waved off.
Aicha cast her eyes over the bare table, a noticeable lack of fruits on it.
“No medjool left?” she asked, and watched as he sighed deeply.
“They will not let anyone leave the gates for trading any more,” Sidi Abdelhak explained.
Though imported goods were prohibited to Maghrebis, they had always been allowed to trade beyond the walls.
Strictly for the sake of the Portuguese’s need for fruits.
“I will run out any day now; the pears have yet to spoil.”
Guilt settled itself into Aicha’s stomach, evicting any joy that had momentarily resided there when she had approached Abdelhak. He patted her wrist in response to her look of pity, moving to place her chosen pears into the satchel which she held open for him.
“Only a little longer,” he mumbled, as if a soldier might hear what he wished for. Aicha only shared a smile with him in response. “I hear the Sultan will attack with seventy thousand men.”
It was said as a statement, but Aicha knew he was asking. She took a step closer as she placed coins in his hand and bent her head towards him. “You would have to ask Baba.”
Since Aicha was a child, sent on errands by her father, Abdelhak had been a constant fixture in the market.
His stall had been passed down for generations, before the siege of the port by the invaders almost four hundred years ago.
Though originally an assistant to his father—whom Aicha had affectionately referred to as Juddi her entire life—Abdelhak had inherited the stall less than one sun cycle ago.
He nodded in acknowledgement, before patting her shoulder as she moved to depart.
“Tell Fouad he owes me a pot of qahwa!” he yelled.
She had already turned her back and started walking, but waved her hand as she headed towards the square.
Stray, moist curls of her hair escaped the wrap she had pulled it into.
Though hijab and abayas were not permitted within the citadel, Aicha had taken to loosely putting her hair within the wrap, the curls splaying out over the top of her head, while the fabric collected the sweat that beaded around the crown of her head.
Her sideburns were also visible in order to ensure that she did not aggravate troops who patrolled the streets.
The knot at the nape of her neck was damp with sweat, and that was where she suddenly felt a painful yank, sending her reeling backwards.
“Why is it always a daughter of Fouad’s breaking the rules?” Commander Almeida’s sneer was prominent on his thin lips as he peered over the back of Aicha’s shoulder.