The City of Silk and Steel Page 29

  Over one hundred women and children, and all of them had been in her care. For the first time in a long while, Zuleika felt the first stirrings of panic.

  ‘Open the gates,’ Maysoon said, fear draining her voice to a parched whisper. ‘Send someone to warn them.’

  ‘No,’ Zuleika replied, her eyes blazing. Opening the gates meant losing the city, and she would not do that, whatever the cost.

  ‘Then they’ll die!’

  ‘No,’ Zuleika said again, more fiercely this time, as if willing it would make it so. Dropping her bow, she turned and ran down the steps from the guard tower to the main fortifications, crossing rapidly to where the women had left the prisoners, sitting against the side of the wall which faced the city. She seized one by the shoulders and dragged him to his feet, then forced him across the walkway to the outer battlements.

  Confusion made the man sluggish, but he went docilely enough, reasoning that a ready submission to his captors’ wills would go easier with him. As Zuleika bent and grasped his legs, the bewilderment on his face resolved into dread, and he shouted and struggled. But his hands were bound, and however much he writhed, he could not free them to claw at the crenellations around him, or the garments of the woman who held him. Zuleika lifted him clear of the walls.

  The scream of the man as he fell was enough to freeze Ashraf’s remaining troops in their tracks. The cry, pregnant with the terror of death, carried far across the plain, arresting the motion of even the furthest riders. It was a long way from the battlements to the ground below. Most of the army missed the sight of the flailing figure as it plummeted from the city walls, but all had turned in time to see the next one.

  By this point, the full import of what Zuleika had just done had sunk in to the other prisoners on the north wall, and the air filled with cries of hysterical entreaty. But there was no need to do more: every man in the army was now running back towards Bessa. When she saw the cavalry reach the city gates, Zuleika stepped forward and brandished her sword in the air, her curved figure and long hair silhouetted in the fading light.

  ‘You have been deceived,’ she shouted. ‘Here is the army you must face. There was never another!’

  On the plain below, Captain Ashraf’s eyes narrowed. Clearly there was truth in what the woman had said. The situation was not as they had supposed, and it seemed more than likely that deception had played a part. Yet something in her words gnawed at him. In spite of being fairly new to the post of captain of the guard, Ashraf felt sure that he had been in this situation before.

  It was a certain quality in the woman’s voice, brazenness laced with something harder to define, that he recognised. He had been addressed in similar tones, though perhaps with more of desperation in them, when he purged the palace of the line of Al-Bokhari. Not everyone he killed had spoken to him thus. Some, like Oosa, had not had the chance to speak at all. But others, usually those who were with their sons or daughters when they were found, had attempted to reason or plead with him, offering bribes or making threats. When Ashraf came to the chambers of Al-Bokhari’s third wife, he had found her son, though a grown man of twenty, hidden behind the rich drapery surrounding her bed. He recalled the mother’s voice as she positioned herself between him and the entrance to her bedchamber, meeting his gaze as she assured him that this was not her son but her lover, that there was no reason to end his life.

  It was this lie that echoed in what he had just heard. If the woman on the battlements were telling the simple truth, then why go to such lengths to recall the army? No, the dust cloud contained no second force. What it very well might contain was a bargaining chip.

  Ashraf called his lieutenant to him. ‘Take the foot soldiers and cavalry, and try to retake the walls,’ he ordered the man. He nodded and rode forward, shouting orders. As the army readied itself, Ashraf motioned to a small group of riders to detach themselves from the main body of the cavalry and follow him. Then he wheeled round and began to gallop hard in the direction of the dust cloud.

  Zuleika stared at the few horsemen as they galloped away, and then at the sea of men massing before the city gates. She had stopped all but a handful of them, and that was all that she would be able to do. Even if she had wanted to, she could not now open the gates to emit a messenger without endangering them all. It would be only moments, she knew, before the soldiers rallied and launched some form of counter-attack.

  She motioned to Zeinab. ‘Get the word out. Everyone is to come down off the walls and head for the palace.’

  Zeinab was rooted to the spot, her eyes glued to the two broken figures on the plain. ‘You threw them over,’ she murmured. ‘You threw them over the edge. Their hands were bound.’

  ‘Zeinab!’ Zuleika shook her. ‘They will start to fire on the battlements. We do not want to be here when that happens.’

  Coming to herself, Zeinab ran back towards the guard tower, shouting as she went, ‘Fall back! To the palace!’

  Zuleika took Rem’s hand and pulled her toward the Eastern Gate. ‘I hope you’re ready, because we just ran out of time. We need to start the second phase now.’

  Several leagues away, Warudu lowered her hand from her eyes, her face pale. ‘They’re coming closer,’ she announced. Behind her the group gave a collective moan of terror. They had put down the combs when Warudu noticed another cloud of dust, this one coming from the direction of the city. It had not taken long for them to guess what was happening. Hakkim’s army was coming for them.

  ‘Zuleika said the soldiers would wait outside the city walls.’ Efridah scowled at the plume of dust growing on the horizon. ‘And just think – this was supposed to be the safe job!’

  ‘We all thought that,’ Farhat said grimly. She drew a group of children closer to her as she spoke, and they buried their faces in her arms. The younger ones had been excited when they began, helping each other to heft the unwieldy combs with shrieks of merriment. Now, although they did not yet understand what was going on, the fear in their aunties’ voices frightened them. Many were whimpering softly.

  ‘Perhaps they’ll see we’re just a bunch of old people and children, and leave us alone,’ Issi murmured.

  ‘They’ll start firing before they can even see us,’ Imtisar snapped back. ‘We’re finished!’ A chorus of angry voices shushed her as some of the youngest children began to wail, but she only became more strident in response. ‘What’s the use in consoling them? An army is marching towards us, and when it arrives it will massacre us all!’ she cried.

  Prince Jamal, who alone out of the children of the seraglio had remained calm during all of these exchanges, raised his head at Imtisar’s words, and gave the courtesan a thoughtful look.

  ‘How do you know?’ he asked.

  ‘How do I know!?’ she exploded. ‘What do you think they’re going to do to us?’

  ‘I mean, how do you know they’re marching?’

  ‘Marching, riding, flying. The manner of their approach matters little,’ Imtisar answered bitterly.

  Jamal stared at the cloud of dust coming towards them. It was small, much smaller than their own had been. Then he looked at the pile of dust raisers, left where they had been thrown in an untidy heap. He appeared to be working something out. When he turned back to the women, his eyes gleamed. ‘It does matter,’ he said, speaking loudly and to the whole group. For once, his arrogant tone and instant assumption of control were neither laughed at nor scolded. The women watched him and waited. ‘If they’re infantry then there’s nothing we can do,’ he continued, ‘but if they’re cavalry, then we might have a chance.’

  The dust raisers worked in tense silence, ears pricked for any sound of the approaching force. They had only minutes, but their task did not take long. Only the oldest of the women had been left with the fake army, but the ages of the children varied from toddlers of four summers to those on the cusp of manhood, such as Jamal. All joined in, and when they had finished, the adults and the older children drew their weapons and pushed the younge
r ones behind them, so that they would not see what was to come. Then they waited.

  At the head of the group, Jamal stood, his teeth gritted and a dagger clutched in his trembling hands. The mounted men appeared as a dark smudge on the horizon, then a line of black specks. As the dull thud of hooves on sand, the slap and jingle of reins, drifted towards the women on the evening breeze, many began to weep silent tears.

  Eventually, they could see thirty or so distinct figures, growing steadily larger as they bore down upon the women and children with terrifying swiftness. Ashraf and his men rode quickly, fanning out in a semicircle as they neared the group. They were close enough now that they could clearly discern the huddled forms, in spite of the failing light.

  Ashraf fixed his eyes on them, noting with quiet triumph how many of them seemed old or infirm. He thought he saw a small head peek from behind a woman’s arm, and realised that there must be children in the party too. It was just as he had guessed. If they took even half of these wretches captive, it would be enough, he hoped, to buy the surrender of the women on the walls. Heartened by this prospect, he spurred on his horse, moving a little ahead of the rest of his men in his zeal to hasten the end of this attempted coup.

  He was only ten feet away from the women when his horse broke its legs. The curved teeth of the dust raisers, buried beneath the sand so that only their points broke the surface, tripped the beast as it ran, tangling its legs together into a twisted heap. It crashed heavily to its side, throwing Ashraf to the ground. He fell awkwardly, knocking his head on a stone, and lay still.

  The man immediately behind him attempted to veer to avoid him, but his mount reared up in panic at the fallen beast in front of it, tipping its rider off backwards before it cantered away. Too fast to stop, and already too close to turn, the remainder of Ashraf’s troop crashed into the tangled mesh of wooden teeth with sickening inevitability. Horses whinnied in pain, pinning their riders beneath them or throwing them off as they fell. The women charged.

  There was nothing glorious about the battle, which was probably why they survived it. While dazed soldiers stumbled to their feet or vainly wrestled against the weight of crippled horses, the women of the seraglio ran at them with knives and rocks, terror giving them both strength and ruthlessness. When they had killed every man who could stand, those who were wounded or unable to move from beneath their steeds cast their weapons away and surrendered, though they had to scream until they were hoarse before the women seemed to hear them and ceased their attack. So driven were they by fear that it took many repetitions before the knowledge that they were safe could penetrate their minds.

  As the women tied the hands of the surviving soldiers, Jamal noticed one of the fallen men begin to stir. It was the one who had led the cavalry, the first to have been thrown from his horse. He had lain still till now, at a little distance from the main body of his troops, presumably knocked unconscious by his fall. As Jamal walked towards him, dagger at the ready, the man suddenly leaped to his feet. He stared about him with unfocused eyes. Jamal was standing closest to him, and it was Jamal that he fixed on. He charged unsteadily towards the boy, reaching for his sword as he went.

  Jamal stood his ground until the man was a few feet away. Then, with a cry of mingled ferocity and terror, he launched himself forward and stabbed him in the chest. Captain Ashraf swayed for a moment, struggling to focus on the boy who stood shaking before him. He frowned, started to speak. Paused, tried again. ‘You’re—’ he slurred. Then he toppled forward, and Oosa’s death was unwittingly avenged by her only son.

  It was in this way that the army of Hakkim Mehdad, guardian of the One Truth, met its defeat at the hands of concubines, bandits and camel-drivers, and the city of Bessa was taken by a rabble of women. The sun which rose on the morning that Bessa fell had seen wonders enough, as all must agree. Yet its light still lingered in the sky when the army of women reached the sultan’s palace, painting their faces with saffron and spilling golden pools onto the floors of empty rooms.

  Though it had already witnessed sights both strange and terrible, they were far from the last that it would see that day.

  The Cook’s Story

  1. Chicken with Millet

  You will need between twelve and twenty chickens. If there are children eating, one chicken may suffice for eight people. When the girls have plucked and gutted the chickens, joint them carefully and lay on griddles over the fire pit to roast. Have some boys walk around the pit with long-handled ladles to catch the juices, which will be added to the sauce later.

  Use a good handful of soaked millet for each person, and a few more for guests. Grind together pepper, cumin and cassia, also cardamom seeds if they can be spared. Chop up eight or ten onions, and five or six cloves of garlic. Fry these in oil for a few minutes, together with the millet, in as many pots as are needed. Then add enough water to each pot to cover the millet, and let them simmer until the millet is soft. While this is happening, prepare a sauce of dried limes, mint and fresh coriander with the juices from the chickens.

  When the millet is almost cooked, stir in two or three handfuls of almonds and raisins to each pot. Serve the chicken on top of the millet, with bread enough for each person, and sauce at the side.

  When the sultan entertained, he and his guests would eat the traditional feast of baby lambs stuffed with nuts, raisins and spices. But Rashad the cook prided himself on his ability to make a banquet just as fine out of cheaper ingredients. It was rare for the whole of the lower household to eat together, but they managed it sometimes on feast days, or for a special celebration such as the marriage of Bokhari Al-Bokhari’s eldest daughter (to a second son of the Sultan of Jawahir, widely considered a good match for a girl who had the misfortune to take after her father in looks). Everyone would crowd into the largest kitchen: the fire banked low, the pots and spits pushed to one side, and every stool and bench in the palace assembled together, while the food was laid out on huge platters on the big chopping table. The children were served first, and sent off to eat by the fire. Then each of the adults would fill his or her piece of bread, and they would eat at their leisure and praise the excellence of Rashad’s art. The sultan never missed a little of his precious cardamom or a few almonds, and a couple of Bessa’s wine merchants would often attend as honoured guests, and never failed to bring a gift. Those were good days.

  Sometimes the cook would make a smaller version of this feast with fish instead of chicken, at the urging of the Lady Gursoon, who said the flavours reminded her of her home. Rashad honoured all the ladies of the seraglio like his own sisters, since they had undertaken the care of his son. After his wife died, Rashad had brought the boy into the heat and chaos of the kitchens every day, having no choice in the matter. He was head cook – he could not neglect his duties to mind his son, still less to teach him. It was Gursoon who had discovered the child building a castle of cleavers on top of the whetstone, and had removed him to the relative safety of the women’s quarters. And so whenever Gursoon took a fancy to taste the dried fish of her home village, Rashad would see to it that some was brought in from the market. Not too much: the sultan himself did not care for it. And to be honest, the feast tasted better with chicken.

  2. Mahalabiyyah

  Heat one small skin of new milk in a pot over the fire.

  Pound four handfuls of rice in a mortar, and add a little less than a cup of water. When it is smooth, add this to the hot milk, taking care to stir it so that no lumps form. Add one handful of sugar, some drops of rose water and slivers of pistachio. When the pudding thickens, it is ready, but it should be cooled before serving. Decorate it well with nuts and rose petals, taking care not to add the petals before the skin is quite cool.

  This was the favourite pudding of Sultan Bokhari Al-Bokhari. It became a tradition in the palace that whenever the sultan was annoyed or out of sorts, someone would send down to the kitchen for mahalabiyyah. At first the order would always come from the seraglio, but in later days one of t
he queens themselves might request it, knowing the soothing effect of the dish.

  In the last days of the sultan’s reign the kitchen workers had many troubles. The followers of the Ascetic cult, with their strange and violent ways, had caused so much unrest in Bessa that the more reliable merchants stopped visiting the town altogether. Cucumbers and radishes were hard to get. There was very little rice, and the supply of saffron ceased altogether. Even fresh meat became uncertain in quality and unreasonably expensive. All this, of course, made the sultan more bad-tempered than ever. The ladies of the seraglio worked valiantly to calm and reassure him, but there was more shouting, more stamping on the tiled floors and kicking of tables than the cook could ever remember.

  His own little son, Dip, who had started to stay in the seraglio with his friends overnight, begged to sleep at home again – the master had been angry and scared them all, he said. He was a spindly, fragile child, with his mother’s big eyes, and easily frightened. Rashad hated to see the boy unhappy, and tried to calm him with treats: cheese pastries or his favourite sesame sweets. But there was little time for making pastries. The sultan’s guard now drilled constantly outside the palace, and had to be fed twice a day. The calls for mahalabiyyah became ever more frequent.

  Old Mahoor, who had been floor sweeper since the days of the sultan’s father, said that Al-Bokhari had shouted like this in the days of his youth, when he was at war with all his neighbours. Alas, the old man added darkly, he had lost the skills of war since then. All his soldiers would not be enough to protect the city now. And so it proved.

  3. Lentil Porridge

  Take a handful of split lentils for each person. Soak in water. When the water is absorbed add a little more, just enough to cover the lentils, and some salt. Put the pot on the fire and cook until the lentils are soft. Serve in bowls, with hard bread.