Chapter 6 #2
Turning a corner onto her street, a chorus of chatter and children’s laughter met her ears. Neighbours sat just outside their doors on goatskin rugs and stools, eating roasted sunflower seeds while the children raced.
The door to the smithy, a one-storey building attached to their home, was chained closed.
No lights were visible through the closed windows, so Aicha moved a few more paces until reaching the front door of their home.
Candles illuminated the front of her father’s workroom when she stepped in; all the cleaned daggers and scythes had been cleared and put into storage.
After removing her shoes, she bolted the door behind her, hearing hushed tones coming from his meeting room in the far back.
Aicha was nosy, and once Fouad realised she would involve herself by force, he relented and let her come and go as she pleased during his meetings. The perks of being his youngest.
She moved down the hallway until reaching the room in the far rear, entering his meeting quarters. She met six pairs of eyes, all familiar to her. “You missed asr and maghrib, Aicha,” Fouad commented, only a flicker of disapproval in his voice.
She was supposed to be back before late afternoon and sundown prayer. “I know, Baba, sorry. I’ll do it once I have cleaned.”
“It is not good to constantly miss prayers; how many times must I tell you this?” he said, and Aicha shot him a look.
“You do when you are in the workroom.”
His response was a narrowing of his eyes; she knew he hated her talking back in front of company.
Rachid and Samira flanked Fouad on either side, hunched over his table, a small lantern illuminating the maps of the citadel spread out in front of them.
The other three men, long-time friends and allies of Fouad, hunched over the table too: Saladin, Sidi Yusuf and Sidi Mohammed; the last two had been with her father since their youth.
Saladin, Mohammed’s eldest son, had been raised alongside Samira, Rachid and her.
At three and twenty, he was often harassed with questions on when he would take a wife, much like Rachid was at his—allegedly—ancient age of five and twenty, to Aicha’s chagrin.
“Meeting so late in the hour today?” Aicha changed the subject, dropping her satchel at her feet. “Salam, Saladin, Sidi Yusuf, Sidi Mohammed.” She nodded at all three, and they returned the motion. Samira answered her, arms folded and biting at the skin around her thumb.
“We had no choice; that imbecile Duarte has placed more day patrols in the neighbourhood.”
“An idiotic decision, considering his numbers have dwindled,” Rachid mused, chin resting in his palm.
“They’re emptying the cistern and returning everything to the ships.
That’s why their numbers of patrols have increased in the square and southern district.
” Aicha came to stand opposite her father, sitting on a stool and pouring herself a cup of atay on the table, though it had become lukewarm.
Its sweet notes were less pleasing now that it was no longer freshly heated.
“It’s to ensure none of us venture too close.
Apparently, there is a healthy supply of gunpowder inside. ”
“How do you know?” Rachid enquired, his brows furrowed. The scowl he had perfected since childhood was as familiar as his smile.
“I was told by Naima; she witnessed it. According to her, they stop and return to the docks at nightfall. If we wanted to steal anything, that would be the best time.”
Instead of focusing on that vital information, Fouad’s eyes narrowed, latching on to another.
“You went to the Gardens?”
“No,” Aicha lied, and she rolled her eyes at the disapproving look that darkened his face. “We went for a walk at the docks before I began my deliveries.”
Not entirely a lie, she was just omitting information that would displease him.
“Why did she not mention this the evening before, when you visited her?”
Aicha deliberately did not look in Rachid’s direction, instead, she maintained eye contact with her father.
Rachid’s expression was as neutral as it could be—when he was so prone to fixing a scowl on his features—but she could feel the irritation in his gaze.
He didn’t like it when she visited the Gardens either.
“Because this only happened last night.”
Fouad stared at her for several seconds in silence, and Aicha did not break his stare. Unlike Samira—who Aicha believed was his favourite—she refused to back down or admit to lying. When he relented, she felt a small vindication.
“So much like your mama,” he muttered, in both annoyance and affection. Aicha took that as his thanks for the information, and refocused her attention on the maps.
“The Sultan’s forces have gathered in a village five days’ ride from the citadel’s gates. We have had word that enemy ships have also been intercepted between here, Tanger and their shores.”
Fouad’s fingers trailed along the parchment that detailed the seas surrounding Maghreb, and Aicha’s interest waned. She had heard this already the night before, when he had been in the forge with Sidi Mohammed.
“According to the letters we received from the northern citadels that have taken control, they have blocked our produce shipment. Everything has come to a standstill,” Rachid interjected.
“Enemy reserves are dwindling and the fishermen are unable to venture out far enough for sufficient catches. Every day the gates remain shut, they starve. They will not last the week without another shipment; those who are afraid are leaving each day. Informants have been saying for days now that the King urges an evacuation, but Duarte still remains.”
The Sanhaji family, and every other Maghrebi within the walls, had spent years surviving through their hunger. Being deprived of food and water had become a common punishment when small incidents of insurgency happened. If one was responsible, they all suffered.
“How are they getting out if the seas are being patrolled by the Sultan’s ships?” Aicha probed.
“According to the informants, the Sultan has agreed to allow ships that are fleeing to pass. Maghrebi forces patrol the Strait of Gibraltar,” Rachid supplied, his finger tracing the line of ocean between Maghreb, Hispania and Portucales.
“Any approaching ships, however, are attacked or chased away.”
“Will the Sultan’s ships attack the docks?”
“No,” Fouad stated, “but they will have ships closing in from the south and north as a deterrent; if the invaders do attack, then the Sultan’s ships will use their cannons on what remains of Duarte’s men at the docks and burn any of their ships that remain.”
“We are hoping for minimal damage and casualties,” Sidi Mohammed supplied.
“And what of our fighters?” Aicha enquired, watching as he marked the citadel’s gates by pressing a dagger into the map.
“Rachid will lead the first wave of men to the gates as a diversion; this will open the opportunity for Sidi Yusuf and the second wave to attack once we have drawn out whatever soldiers remain.” He paused, and Aicha watched as her baba became lost in thought, as if he distrusted the truth of what he said next.
“We will then open the gate and release the signal to the Sultan’s men for them to approach.”
“A signal?”
“A gazelle horn.” Fouad answered. “Then engage any that are left at the gates, though many should have fled.”
“And what of my role?” Aicha pushed, staring directly at Baba. His gaze narrowed; he was unwilling to answer and make promises, it seemed. The moment was charged, a stand-off between father and daughter, and silence engulfed the room.
As frustrated as he could make her, she knew his hesitation stemmed from fear. A fear for their safety, and failure. Aicha knew the stories, knew that a siege had been attempted almost three hundred years ago, but the rebel’s had failed. He feared a repeat of history.
But that didn’t matter to her, not right then.
Any embarrassment over asking in a room full of her baba’s peers, in front of Rachid, dried up at the memory of each time he dismissed her in private.
With no one to watch, he seldom relented to her suggestions or pleas to be given some form of responsibility.
But there, in-between men he had fought with her whole life, he would rather the earth swallow him whole than engage in an argument with her.
She had him cornered, and so she knew he would relent to avoid a scene.
Aicha had not been beaten and hardened in combat to sit on the sidelines.
Fouad knew that—he had to—and she refused to sit back while her family risked their lives.
He spoke with reluctance. “You will be with myself and Samira.” Knowing her baba, he would take it back the moment everyone departed, but she would not relent this time.
The silence following his statement was disrupted by a grunt from Sidi Mohammed as he scratched at his greying beard, shaking his head.
“It feels too simple.”
“Of course it does. The following days until the siege will be tense. Duarte will look for any reason to arrest us.” Aicha’s breathing ate up the silence.
“We know hunger well,” Sidi Yusuf noted, “but the men will be weak. We have never fought after a food shortage before.”
“Neither have they,” Rachid countered, “and our familiarity with it provides us with a stronger chance of success. It is a price I am willing to pay.” There was a brief period of silence, where none disagreed with Rachid, yet there remained a slither of fear at what a food shortage meant.
They could survive, but the children could not, along with the elderly they would suffer, and Aicha thought back to her conversation with Naima.
No, there is no line.
But perhaps victory at the expense of the very people she dreamed of freeing was her only line.
“We must prioritise rations for the children, and anyone too old or sick to be able to hold on through the coming days.”
Pride flickered in her baba’s gaze at her words, and a small grin tugged at the corner of his lips, barely visible beneath his beard. He nodded his agreement. “Reserves of what is left of our own produce are being distributed to accommodate this.”
Of course he had already thought of it, Aicha realised, and yet he remained proud of her for it. As if his fears that this life had darkened his daughters’ souls to the point of no return were unfounded.
Fouad cleared his throat, his eyes surveying everyone in the room. “Duarte has no intention of abandoning the citadel, despite the other regiments being called back. He will be watching us closely. I do not want to create any reasons to draw his attention.”
The group nodded in unison at his orders, and a scoff escaped Rachid’s lips.
“He is so… bitter. So intent on watching us burn, regardless of whether he burns too.”
“People like that,” Saladin mumbled, “people who have only ever believed that they are superior merely by existing, that they are owed things they did not earn and can take what they want, they will never admit defeat. People like Duarte are incapable of accepting defeat.”
Silence filled the chasm between every member in Fouad’s room, and Saladin’s words left Aicha wondering whether Duarte would ensure the citadel burned to ashes just so that he would never have to willingly relinquish control.
It made her wonder what kind of madness would drive someone to that.
The depth of hate and malice that would have been allowed to flourish inside you just to never see anything with a clear mind. To never consider sense.
Aicha cleared her throat. “Do we think it’s worth raiding the cistern? The gunpowder would be beneficial.”
Rubbing at the nape of his neck, her baba nodded, tapping a knuckle on the table to draw the attention of everyone in the room.
“Samira and Rachid can draw up a plan tomorrow.” He looked at Samira. “If it is viable, and not too much of a risk, then have it done within the next three days.”
Aicha could have sworn that her baba knew exactly what she was thinking, because as soon as she drew her shoulders back, mouth opening to oppose his orders and the fact he had completely excluded her from them, he moved on.
“After that we descend into silence until the morning of the siege. I do not want anyone causing trouble. Is that clear?” His tone left no room for dissent, and he stared at Aicha particularly hard. “That means I do not want to find you antagonising Duarte again, Aicha.”
Annoyance flared in her chest, but she nodded regardless.
“You have made that clear, Baba,” she drawled, and her tone elicited a smirk from Samira. “My best behaviour. I have taken note.”
The sisters’ eyes connected, amusement held at bay, knowing their father would not take kindly to their laughter.
It would have appeared silly to anyone else, to see two women below the age of five and twenty find anything amusing in that moment when war was being discussed, and the loss of life was such a high possibility.
But their lives had been doused in secrecy, in backdoor dealings and the taste of war at the back of their throats.
They had only ever known caution and combat, had witnessed friends executed for things as pitiful as stealing fruit.
Hanging for treason did not elicit fear from them.
Though Fouad had never been brutal with his daughters, he had never coddled them either. They were always prepared.