Chapter 18
Aicha was not used to silence in the mid mornings.
On the rare occasion she had been allowed to sleep freely, and not rise with the sun, she would wake to the sound of children in the streets.
The trading stalls in the souk would be lively in their arguing for the asking price of a dozen prickly pears in exchange for a sum of coins that was simply too low.
Instead, all was quiet—despite the Gardens’ central location—except for the calls of the gulls that flew above.
It should have felt tranquil, calming, but instead the stillness served as a reminder of those who remained hung on a rope just outside of where Aicha slept.
If she kept her eyes closed, she could fabricate the sound of the market in her mind, restoring some semblance of normality that would make her feel settled.
Awakening to Rachid’s absence, who had spent the night with his arms wrapped around her, had given her a brief respite to recall their conversation.
Yet she felt cold, empty, a distinct loneliness infiltrated her bones without the security of his hold.
And he was right. Baba would not have wanted her to act so rashly, and she wished she could have honoured him.
But she wondered if perhaps his endless patience would have even been useful to her now.
If Fouad knew of the events that would unfold over the coming days, including his death, would he have been so adamant about maintaining a low profile?
He had wanted to minimise the attention drawn to himself and his daughters for the remaining days, and it had drawn the opposite results.
Was now the correct time to maintain a quiet existence?
To remain hidden, scared and nervous if they were to be found before escaping.
Aicha knew what her baba’s answer would have been, and yet she found—for the first time in her life—that he was wrong.
Without him there to temper her, she struggled to think clearly, to not second guess her decisions.
The creature that lingered in her chest hummed, as if no longer feeling chained inside, and Aicha’s desire to listen grew.
But they were now on borrowed time, and what remained of Duarte’s battalion would no doubt search the Gardens once more.
Aicha imagined his hunger for her head would exceed any patience he might have ever possessed—no matter how little it might have been.
His stubbornness and pride would see the citadel burn before he allowed them to take it back.
And by then he and his men would have fled.
Men like him, who had no ties of sentimental value to this home, only viewed it as a commodity.
Something to own, something they felt superior to, lording over those who had spent generations living within the walls.
When she rose, rubbing out the exhaustion from her eyes, she put such thoughts aside.
Contemplating life-altering events shouldn’t be done while her dreams and nightmares were yet to be forgotten after waking.
Instead, she went in search of Rachid and whoever else had taken sanctuary in the Gardens.
Leaving Naima’s room, she walked down the dark hallway and down the steps, until coming to the courtyard.
Its greenery, which once appeared so bright and luscious, looked wilted now.
As if it had not seen the sun in days. What once had been a lively space, with fresh fruits overflowing in bowls and port spilling from jugs, had been drained of its life.
Ransacked and pillaged by Duarte’s men, just as their land had been.
When she reached the opposite side, her ears pricked at the soft echoes of voices.
When she found Rachid, he sat in a dimly lit room, a small lantern flickering.
Something they could risk in a space with no windows, and no way of being spotted by outside scouts.
Rachid’s head snapped up at the sound of her approaching footsteps, as did two others.
Both familiar faces, ones that she welcomed with a warm smile, brimming with relief that they were still alive.
“Saladin, Sidi Mohammed. I am glad to see you both all right.”
Saladin’s lips opened and closed for a few moments as he watched Aicha step into the room. His face was drained of colour, eyes plagued with a guilt that Aicha believed was not his to carry.
“Aicha, I am so sorry.”
“There is no need, Saladin,” she interrupted him, shaking her head as she moved forward to take a seat beside Rachid. “We have all suffered over this night.”
They surrounded a small round table, stale khobz split between them. It was not until then that Aicha realised she was famished, her stomach audibly growling. Rachid took note of the sound, ripping his share of the food in half and giving her the bigger piece.
She took it gratefully, muttering a thanks before ripping off a piece with her teeth and chewing.
The sight would have been labelled unbecoming by her baba, a thought that sent a stabbing shot of pain through her at the reminder that it would be something he would never do again.
She gulped down her khobz along with the lump in her throat, both sitting heavy inside her.
“How many were murdered?” she asked quietly.
Saladin shifted uncomfortably, wincing with pain. “Over a hundred; we do not have specific numbers yet.”
“All Maghrebis?”
He nodded. “Any that they deemed guilty of insurrection. Some Portuguese soldiers were tried as traitors.”
“Even the children…” Rachid bristled, and Aicha turned to watch him as his jaw clenched.
“It was Zubair,” Mohammed eventually said, unable to look Aicha in the eye as his hands shook in what she presumed to be anger.
“They had caught one of his sons and had been… whipping him for hours. Zubair told them of Fouad’s plans, of where to find our hidden supplies.
They slit his throat afterwards. I do not know if Zayn survived. ”
Mohammed’s hair seemed greyer, despite his not being much older than Fouad, and his beard was longer than she had ever seen it, eyes bloodshot, as if the past days had aged him exponentially. Aicha did not even know if his wife and children had survived. And she was too afraid to ask.
“Coward. They would have killed him regardless,” he spat.
“He was afraid,” she interjected, her heart beating out of fear that she might have overstepped. She had never spoken back to elders. Except for her own family. “People will do anything when they fear losing the ones they love. We cannot fault him for that.”
“You do not blame him for Fouad and Samira’s death?” Saladin’s voice held on to nothing but calm curiosity, as if exhausted with all that he had felt in the past hours.
“I blame Duarte for their deaths.” Aicha felt a burning heat in her chest as she answered.
“I blame his king and his hunger to claim land not his own. I blame every invader who has set foot on our soil, with a weapon forged for war and a thirst to take what does not belong to them. They killed my family, not Zubair.”
Blaming Zubair would not bring her anything; he was gone, his son’s and his own life ended as ruthlessly as Fouad and Samira’s.
“He was just collateral,” Rachid supplied, his voice calm. An anchor.
Aicha felt the warmth of his hand enclose around her knee, squeezing softly. A reminder that she was not alone. It remained there as he cleared his throat, sitting straighter to lean forward and rest his left elbow on the table before continuing.
“We must decide now. Do we abandon our plans or press on? The last letter shared was their agreement to storm the citadel in two days. At dawn.”
“What remains of Duarte’s battalion has been spotted across the citadel, they are placing barrels full of gunpowder in whatever vacant homes are left,” Saladin said, running a palm down his face.
Aicha, stunned, took in this news, as well as the three men’s faces. None of them appeared remotely surprised by this information. She shouldn’t have been either, for she knew of Duarte’s desire to see the citadel ruined. “They always planned to raze the citadel to the ground.”
She paused, mulling over the information, wondering—apart from burning homes to the ground—what else could come from this. “He’s staying to fight, or to at least ensure that any of us remain and the Sultan’s men burn before placing his banner at the gates.”
“No, he’s attempting to force us out into the open,” Rachid countered, a crease between his thick brows.
He was troubled by more than just this information, and Aicha suspected that it interrupted his plans of taking her and leaving.
Because this would not just smoke out their little group, it would force any remaining Maghrebis out into the open too, regardless of their affiliation to the rebellion.
If Duarte’s battalion simply wanted to burn down the citadel, and then abandon it, she was certain he meant to kill anyone left inside.
That included innocent lives. And Rachid was far too honourable to allow such a thing.
“We stay, but we must do something with the stolen gunpowder we have left,” he finalised, a hard look of resolve on his face as he looked up at the three who sat around him. “Use it against them, in some way.”
When he looked at Aicha last, a flicker of pride bloomed in her chest. There was a shared moment of understanding, reminding her of what he had said the night before.
That he would follow her anywhere she wished to go, even to their deaths.
She would do the same, would descend into a dark abyss if it meant she would remain by his side.
She nodded, her own hand coming to rest where he gripped her knee, squeezing his fingers.
“We can move some to the docks, where their last ships are,” she said, looking at Saladin and Mohammed.