Sayyida: A Novel of Xvi Th Century Morocco

By Jo Ford

In the year 1485, a daughter is born to Muslim parents who fled to Morocco as the conquering armies of Ferdinand and Isabella advanced through Andalusia. The baby is promised as wife to her father's friend, also a nobleman from Spain. Unlike her brother, Zuhra is destined to grow up mostly inside the walls of the family kasbah in Chaouen, a secluded village high in the Rif Mountains, governed by her father, a descendant of Prophet Muhammed. Indulged and free from care, her childhood is confined and protected.

When she marries at sixteen, Zuhra's world swiftly expands to include Berbers, Jews, sultans, pirates, Christian captives, and an unpredictable family. With an independent spirit and persistent curiosity, her life as a traditional Muslim woman moves from duty and devotion to fame and notoriety, then romance and adventure.

Sayyida Zuhra al-Hurra, called both Renaissance woman and Pirate Queen, rules a city-state for a quarter century at a time of turbulent historical shiftsthe dominance of Barbary pirates in the Mediterranean, Spanish and Portuguese invasions of North Africa, New World voyages, and the Ottoman Empire's advance toward Europe. Facing loss and betrayal, Zuhra meets the challenges of a wider world with resilience and audacity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450214421

Jo Ford

author’s bio Jo Ford is a widely traveled author of four previous historical novels, Colophon, The Land Between Two Rivers, Sayyida, and Beloved of the Gods. As a modern traveler she has been to the places Prince Pedro plausibly journeyed five centuries ago. Born and bred in a hemisphere Pedro never knew existed, she has also traveled there extensively. She is retired from teaching English and Humanities at Mission Community College and lives in Silicon Valley.

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Copyright © 2010 Jo Ford

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-1441-4 (pbk)

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iUniverse rev. date: 3/12/10

Contents

DEDICATION

CHARACTERS

Prologue

Part One

1470-1521

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Part Two

1520-1540

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Part Three

1542-1544

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Historical Afterword

Historical Sources

Glossary

Acknowledgments

DEDICATION

To the memory of Mary Helen Walker, friend, author, teacher

CHARACTERS

Abu Ali—husband of Aysha*

Aly al Mandri (AH-lee ahl MAHN-dree)Husband of Zuhra, Governor of Tetuan*

Ahmed al-Wattasi-Sultan of Fez, self-proclaimed King of Morocco

Ammod Hasan-husband of Fatah; son of Hasan Hashim**

Aruj-(Ah-ROOJ ) first Barbarossa- Redbeard, the Ottoman corsair, privateer and pirate, brother of Khizr*

Aysha-(EYE-sha) younger daughter of Zuhra and Aly**

Daniel-Jewish healer and rabbi

Dragut-A Turk, corsair and former Danube River pirate, captain under Barbarossa*

Fatima-(FAH-tee-mah) servant girl and cook

Fatna-older daughter of Zuhra and Aly**

Fernando-uncle of Zuhra, from Ronda, Spain, Minister of the Tetuan Military*

Hasan Hashim- Andalusian noble living in Fez and Chaouen, breeder of horses*

Ibrahim- older brother of Zuhra*

Joseph-Rachel’s husband, goldsmith, Tax Collector and Minister of the Treasury

Kahina-Berber woman, servant for the family, cook, and maid for children

Khizr Reis-(Ki-ZEER Rays) (Reis, Beylerbey, Admiral) Ottoman corsair also celebrated as Kheir ed-Din (Defender of the Faith) and as Barbarossa, brother of Aruj*

Kleinatz, Nicholas-Dutch scholar and linguist, tutor of Zuhra*

Layla (LAY-la)-Mother of Zuhra; from near Cadiz; daughter of noble parents, married to Mulay al Rashid**

Maria-Morisco, young daughter of Spanish artisan, freed by corsairs

Muhammed-bastard son of Mulay ibn Rashid by a concubine

Mulay Aly al Rashid (MOO-lay), sharif, father of Zuhra and Ibrahim, founder and Emir of Chaouen*

Nahlid-wife of Ibrahim, a widow with 2 children, related to Sultan of Fez

Rachel-Daniel’s daughter, married to Joseph

Simon Ihudi- Jewish tax collector,

Zuhra (ZOO-rah) al-Hurra,daughter of Layla and Mulay**

* Historical personages

** Historical personages whose names have been recorded and spelled variously by historians of the era. Women are often referred to only by title, by their parents’ names, or by their husband’s name.

Map-Left.jpgMap-Right.jpg

Prologue

Atlantic Coast of Morocco-1467

Stealthily, the disguised Moorish noble, wrapped his turban in Moroccan fashion and reached beneath his wide, belted sash with manicured fingers to fish out six gold coins. The Portuguese fisherman spread his sea legs to roll with the coastal tide as his deep-bellied boat, its journey over, wallowed in the darkness, the black waters betrayed only by the surf’s measured white breakers. Agilely moving forward, he kept his balance, one hand extended for the gold pieces and the other resting on the wet mane of his passenger’s Barbary horse. He was Jewish, no more a fisherman than the refugee before him was a Moroccan. By day, he fished a little in the Atlantic, off the southernmost Spanish coast; by sundown, he was a pirate. With a boat fashioned like those used by the Romans eight centuries before, cleverly modified, he could transport a horse or two and rider—or the booty from a raid—and still look like a fisherman instead of a pirate. His boat was painted black. At sunset he was all but invisible gliding into river inlets to steal sheep, salt, or unguarded fish catches from along the shore. If he alarmed villagers or shepherds, he sped away raising a small black lateen sail. He also ferried Muslims, like this one, fleeing Catholic rule. And Jews like himself, clever enough to avoid Christian persecution.

Feeling slightly foolish, Aly al-Mandri hoisted the leather saddle and small sea chest himself, as the Portugee expertly fixed a short gangplank and first led the mule off the boat, now washed onto a small sandy beach south of Tangier. He splashed back, releasing a hawser before retrieving the stallion. As al-Mandri accepted the reins, he thanked the boatman in Portuguese and Arabic. In return, the man said in Arabic, Don’t go to Asilah. Go inland. Then he waded into the chilly, salt water, up-ended the gangplank, and with one shoulder, heaved his boat oceanward to catch the pull of the water. With perfect timing he leaped upward and rolled his body over the side, groping for an oar as the boat slid back into the shallows of the Atlantic Ocean.

Rising at dawn, Al-Mandri tethered his horse and mule and burrowed into the sand to wait for enough daylight to travel. He remembered the advice of boatmen in Granada to those leaving: a mule is better than jewels, for a horse will be stolen. Many bandits and thieves lurk along the way. He would change his brine-soaked boots of fine Cordovan leather for shabby, scuffed slippers before he rode south to his cousin’s house in Asilah, as planned, notwithstanding the enigmatic boatman’s advice.

Above the beach, he found a rocky trail along the ridge of sandstone cliffs and rode at a comfortable pace, meeting no one, breathing in the panorama—on one side, the expanse of white-capped, indigo ocean swells; on the other, the distant snow capped crests of the Atlas mountains. When he stopped at a clear mountain spring to fill his water skin and eat dates and goat cheese, he lovingly drew his Toledo-crafted sword and his heavy dagger from the blanket he had wrapped them in. Since he had met none of the robbers he was warned about, he pushed the damascened dagger into his sash and hung the sword from the worn saddle that was part of his effort at disguise. Still, the old saddle was deep and had broad stirrups. It would serve him well if he were set upon. The beautiful saddles with tassels, embroidery, and braids, ones he had reluctantly sold before leaving Spain, would have announced to strangers that he also carried gold and a legacy of jewels from a mother in Cadiz. For fleeing Andalusia, he wouldn’t be assaulted; for treasure, he would be. After washing his hands and face at the spring, he knelt on a small saddle rug to face Mecca and say his prayers.

He mounted again, and by afternoon, found the trail dipping downward on the Rif side. He no longer had his ocean view, but he could easily cross the ridge again when he believed he was nearing the port of Asilah. At his cousin’s house, he would buy a proper tunic and cloak before continuing inland to Fez. His good friend and cousin, Mulay Ali, had assured him Fez was a city of culture and sophistication, a city of learning and art where Islamic law ruled. There, he would be welcomed into the colony of exiles.

Hours later, the mule plodding behind, he turned his horse westward, anticipating his cousin’s hospitality: a welcoming cup of hot, sweet tea, a bath or dip in a warm pool by the sea, and a tagine of steaming mutton stew and couscous. Tonight he would sleep on soft cushions, not sand and rocks. He was baffled as he ascended the rise and saw the harbor of Asilah filled with ships and boats, as far as the horizon. Portuguese flags flew from the masts, even British flags. The beach was a crowded chaos of horses and huddled people being herded into small boats. Alarmed, he knew it must be an invasion.

From a rocky recess in the eroded cliff face, four horsemen suddenly burst into view and, reaching the ridge, galloped toward Mandri, their swords drawn. Jarred from his distracted jumble of thought, he recognized Portuguese military dress and hastily sought a flat piece of ground where he could defend himself. He chopped the mule’s tether, knowing it wouldn’t go far. The lead horseman miscalculated the slope he was rushing down, and Mandri braced himself in the saddle as his Barbary steed stood firm. He swung his sword expertly, severing the man’s right arm. It was too late for the second attacker to stop his rush, and as his horse aimed for Mandri, there was just enough time to raise his sword for a deadly swing.

At a pull on the reins, Mandri’s horse maneuvered readily, then steadied his heavily muscled hind quarters for the clash. Mandri’s stroke slashed deeply across his enemy’s chest in a blow that was fatal. The stricken rider’s sword left only a superficial cut on Mandri’s thigh. Praise Allah, he had caught the blade flat sided, not on the fiercely sharp edge. The other two horsemen, splattered with the windborne blood of the first, turned and fled. Mandri clumsily unwound his long turban, looped it under his knee, and knotted it over the cut to stanch the blood flow. Then he hurriedly rode down an overgrown trail, the sure-footed mule following, toward a valley below the Rif massifs and headed east toward Fez.

He still had both horse and mule and two trunks with Andalusian treasures. As Allah willed, an invasion might mean fewer robbers on the Fez road. On the other hand, if he were attacked by Berber tribesmen they were likely to recognize the stallion he rode as a Barbary, a much coveted breed, and as valuable as the gold he carried. As many as fifteen slaves, he had been told, were traded for a Barb stallion. Before he had become the lord of Andalusian estates, he had fought in provincial wars, knew how to fight. But if he made it safely to Fez—with his wealth—he intended to settle into the peaceful life of a scholar, living the life chosen by ancient Roman senators in retirement.

Aly al-Mandri only had to fend off attackers once: three desperate, vicious men outside a village. Yet the advantage of his stallion gave him superiority in spite of his wound. The only other person he saw was a terrified youth riding hard, awkwardly leading a string of four horses, escaping Asilah also. Days later, after the arduous journey, he arrived in Fez, welcomed by another cousin, Mulay Ali ibn Rashid, and a Jewish physician who ministered to the festering wound. His treasure was intact.

Part One

1470-1521

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Mulay’s Kasbah

Chaouen, three years later-1470

Mulay ibn Rashid sipped from a blue-glazed cup, savoring the minty flavor of Spanish tea along with the grandeur of the two rocky peaks of Jebal Ech Chaouen. He exhaled slowly, watching his breath frost in the mountain air of mid-morning. Stretching both legs before him, he waited expectantly for the April sun to warm his shoulders as it rose above the square red clay towers of the kasbah, streamed into the windows on all three levels, and flowed onto the capacious balcony where he sat.

Life is sweet, he thought expansively. In the last year he had built this thick-walled, fortified castle on the high plateau of Morocco’s protective Rif Mountains. Leaving behind in Fez a concubine and a son, he had moved with his wife, Layla, a two-day’s ride north, into the kasbah, an ambitious stronghold. It was the first step in his plan to rebuild the ancient village of Chaouen, snugly nestling against the mountain crests, as a refuge for Moors fleeing Spain. Insha’Allah. And as a sharif, one descended from the Prophet, he suspected it was Allah’s will for him. An even more remote ancestor was a Berber tribal chieftain famed for tenacity.

Tomorrow, he would begin making the new home as familiar as the beautiful palace they forsook in al-Andalus. A blue-tiled bath as blue as the Mediterranean, carved cedar wood ceilings, and a garden as fragrant as those of the Alhambra—these he had promised Layla. Today was a special day. Layla, lay on the birthing bed in a room below, awaiting the arrival of their second child, if Allah so willed, another son, a brother for five-year-old Ibrahim.

Suddenly, the sun’s pale, melon-hued light burst over the terrace with enveloping warmth. He could hear Mandri, stirring in the room below. The tall, iron-strapped entrance doors had been left unbarred for the late night arrival from Fez of his noble guest, a distant cousin and his closest friend. The Rif trail was at an altitude that kept the last of the day’s light, enough for Aly al-Mandri’s horse, yet he arrived by torchlight well after mountain shadows had darkened the sloping valley below. Mulay was glad to have his friend here with him, waiting for the birth of his son. A sip of tea told him it had cooled. He beckoned the Berber woman who waited in the kitchen nearby. They would have breakfast, and afterward, argue as they had for the last three years—ever since al Mandri left Granada—about the war in Spain.

The Christian infidels will never take Granada, Aly al-Mandri had always insisted. Villages, yes. But Ronda and the Alcazar are impregnable!

Mulay, however, took the long view of things. I don’t think so, cousin. They keep pushing south. Do as I’ve done. Leave while you can.

Following the death of his wife Fatima, al-Mandri reluctantly sold his vast estate of olive orchards and cork trees and, narrowly escaping a massacre by the Portuguese at Asilah, made his way to Fez, joining Mulay and other exiles. Nevertheless, he obstinately held to his argument that the Christians would not prevail.

We Muslims have lived in Spain and Portugal for eight centuries!

Like ancient donkey trails in the mountains, their arguments were worn with repetition. Eventually, they would smile and admit that, as warriors who had fought to defend their lands in Granada, their speculation was military, while Allah’s will in the matter was not discernible. One or the other would add, If so, may Allah restore it to us, a benediction to their prophecies. Al-Mandri, who had spent the last three years in Fez studying theology and Quaranic law at the university, had sharpened his argumentative skills appreciably. Mulay, on the other hand, had spent the past year erecting buildings and walls in the mountains. I won’t be surprised, he thought with amusement, if I lose some arguments this time. If only from lack of practice.

This particular morning, however, the hospitable aroma of baking bread crept palpably over the low wall, reminding Mulay of Mandri, whose thick, black head of hair would soon be appearing at the top of the steps. Mulay anticipated Mandri’s surprise at what he would see. With satisfaction and pride he looked down into the kasbah’s unfinished garden and saw the rounded clay oven, like a pomegranate crimsoned by the sun, with smoky tendrils rising.

In another year, Allah willing, there would be more houses on the slopes, with terraces for the women to clamber over when they went to visit other women. Instead of more ovens, there would be a bakery in the midst of bustling market stalls where women would carry their dough, mixed and kneaded at home. And while the bread plumped and baked in the communal ovens, the women would trade news and gossip of their fast-growing families and neighborhoods. And for the men, a public hammam, ablution fountains, and, grandest of all, there would arise a mosque with marble pillars, tiled naves, and a canopy of aromatic cedar.

For any man, wondered Mulay Ali al Rashid, is there a greater accomplishment than building a city? Starting with a kasbah, that, like the yeast in bread, carries the promise of growing into a village, rising prosperously on the stolid slopes of the Rif? Should the ruthless army of Ferdinand and Isabella ever cross the Straits of Gibraltar, they will meet an impregnable barrier here, swore Mulay. The city wall, thus far had only one gate, enclosing the kasbah and a small market area and plaza, but the walls were thick, topped by a row of menacing merlons, innocent architectural decorations that served to steady the archers’ bows and eventually cradle cannon. Aly was right about one thing. Chaouen was protected not only by rugged, rock-bound terrain but by the sacred tomb of a saint. Pilgrims would come for the miracles. Andalusians would come for the solace of a new home that resembled the old one.

Even as he turned toward the opening where the stone stairs reached the terrace, Mulay heard the gasping cry of a newborn issuing from below, followed by a raucous bawl. With thumb and index finger he stroked his moustache and widened his smile in further self-congratulation. Such a raucous sound could only be coming from a boy!

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New Arrivals

Three years later

Instead of the well-groomed head of Aly or the unruly curls and beard of Daniel, the Jewish physician attending Layla, Mulay saw his five-year old son Ibrahim bounding breathlessly from the stairwell. In a high-pitched voice the excited boy blurted out, It’s a girl! Daniel leaned against the stairwell wall and smiled. Clearly the eavesdropping boy wanted a sister. The healer had seen the same elation from Layla when he held up the small red-faced baby with a mop of black hair. The mother, with strands of her own black hair still clinging to her face, damp with the sweat of a long labor, beamed her pleasure when she saw the baby’s sex. Daniel had no doubt she had hoped for a daughter.

Mulay, disguising his disappointment, seized Ibrahim by his thin shoulders and propelled him to a stool at the other side of the terrace, delivering a gruff lecture on respect for elders. The Berber cook glared her approval as she waited for Daniel’s order to take the black fennel seed in warm milk to the mother, to strengthen her after childbirth. Her master had recently taken charge of the boy’s upbringing, as was customary when a boy turned five.

But now, she had told him, You must learn good Arabic manners and study the Quran under the strict eye of your father. The noble lady, his mother, fortunately would have a daughter to coddle. Maybe because she was a rural Berber, deep down, the cook liked Ibrahim’s boisterous ways. Still, she knew the son of a sharif would not grow up to be a nomad or a donkey driver like her own sons, so the boy would have to learn some proper manners. When Aly al-Mandri arrived on the terrace, the cook summoned other servants to help serve the celebratory breakfast.

Knowing this was an emotional family occasion, Daniel excused himself. Almost as exhausted from the labor as Layla, he dismissed the elderly midwife, useless with her bad eyesight and gnarled hands. As he left, Mulay pressed him. Please take oranges to your children, Daniel. They’re sun sweetened. The treat was brought from the balmy coast of the Mediterranean below, a mere sixty kilometers away, but carried up a steep, arduous trail from a river that reached inland.

Daniel lifted the basket to his nose and inhaled the ripe citrus smell, then hurried back to his own family in the mellah, the Jewish section of Chaouen. His family also celebrated births but invited other families to rejoice with them, especially for the circumcision of sons. Muslims had such a ritual too, but celebrated differently when the child was older. The Jews had much in common with the Moors, and as a friend of Mulay, Daniel had accompanied him to Morocco. Originally his family had been driven out of Portugal by persecution and settled in Spain believing it a more enlightened place. A few generations ago, religion hadn’t divided people in Spain; now, that was changing in a terrible way for both Muslims and Jews. Daniel tried not to think of the Inquisition’s cruelty to those who hadn’t left. Here he was as safe as a Jew could ever be.

When Al-Mandri appeared, Mulay beckoned the cook and introduced her as Kahina, hinting that she was more than a mere cook to the family. Aly al-Mandri shared his cousin’s high spirits as they spread goat cheese and honey on bread made from banana flour. And drank Kahina’s tea. While Mulay was indolently enjoying a respite from hard, physical work, he noted Aly shifting his position on the divan and reaching for pillows to stuff behind his back. How about a view from the terrace and a walk before prayers? Aly smiled. I’m saddle sore from three days of riding. I’ve been sitting at the feet of the legal scholars, getting lazy, while you’ve been make pisé bricks. He didn’t see the glint in Mulay’s eyes as he responded. You can tell me all about Muslim jurisprudence and the Sultan’s rulings while I’m telling you how to build a town.

They climbed the narrow, outside kasbah steps to the top floor terrace, where Mulay, with sweeping gestures pointed to spaces adjacent to his own kasbah. The mosque will be built here. Later a high minaret.

Next door? asked Aly, surprised.

The founder has his prerogatives, replied Mulay, half joking. We don’t have a lot of flat land, as you see. Closer to the river, I’ll put the public bath. In the direction of the hillside where the women wash clothes. He waved his hand in the other direction, the sunlight flashing off his gold signet ring as if to confirm his authority. Insha’Allah, he added.

I can see the cemetery’s big enough for many generations said Aly, pointing to the nearby hillside with white tombstones and, farther on, the dome of the saint.

Standing side-by-side the two men were a striking contrast in stature. Their faces, likewise, showed no trace of their common Berber ancestor. The Emir of Chaouen, robustly built, his thick moustache trim above a ready smile, towered a dignified four inches above his cousin, who was thin, wiry, and muscular. Because both were named Ali, they had for many years called each other Mandri and Mulay, although Mulay was an honorary title rather than a name, and Mandri was a parental name.

As they walked, they spoke of new houses and of families who would live in them, the displaced Andalusians. Although Mulay knew Aly had nothing to tie him to a hearth, he sketched with his beringed forefinger where the plazas would be.

I’m going to build administrative buildings as part of the kasbah’s walled compound, he said importantly as they reached the gate, returning. Of course that’ll be much later. He turned before they entered the walls and swept his arm up in one direction and down in the other indicating the sloping space opposite. Souks filled with pottery, carpets, and tiles to beautify the new homes. Two fountains. One at the top of the hill under the trees. One here by the mosque for ablutions. We have many springs to pipe water from.

Mulay’s pride was genuine; however, he had a deeper reason than boasting for showing his village to Mandri, one he wasn’t yet ready to discuss. Al-Mandri, absorbed in his study of the sharia for three years had been content to live the quiet life of a Fez scholar, a denizen of the libraries and Wattasid courts, no longer a warrior. It fit perfectly with the proposition Mulay had for him.

While Mulay made the expected brief visit to his wife and new daughter, Mandri strolled about the stables and animal pens. As customary, the birth was not discussed, although Mulay’s voice carried the subtle authority conveyed on a man by the birth of a child, even a girl. Mandri heard this with a small quiver of envy. As nobles we are haunted by a small fear that we can’t sire enough offspring to maintain our class, he thought. However, such an anxiety was seldom admitted, even to one’s best friend. All afternoon, they talked, except when interrupted by the muezzin’s calls to prayer. Mulay, like a wise carpenter or brick-layer carefully putting down foundations, talked of the latest ominous rumors from Spain.

You’re safe here in this remote mountain village protected by mountains, insisted Aly. Somberly, Mulay expressed concern that there was no barrier to stop the Portuguese if they marched south. Granada’s coast is only a few hours away from ours, closer than the gap across the Straits of Gibraltar. Aly suspected nothing, however, since exiles always talked of this when they got together. Of that, and treasured memories of Al Andalus. May Allah restore it to us, was murmured almost as a benediction.

***

That same evening as prayers finished and prayer rugs were rolled up, a furious clatter of the heavy doorknocker at the entrance roused everyone in the kasbah. During the holiday from the noisy work of building, quiet had fallen on Chaouen. In an instant that was shattered.

The high iron-strapped entrance doors opened to a tall, thin figure who stood stiffly between his tired horse and a donkey laden with two large leather bags. When the man pushed back the hood of his long mud-spattered djellabah, Mulay recognized Layla’s brother Fernando, haggard and unkempt from traveling. Merhaba! Peace be unto you! Mulay called, rushing out to welcome his brother-in-law, both arms open. Fernando’s stance remained rigid, so Mulay stepped back to look into the dark eyes, the gaunt face.

Ronda has fallen, said Fernando in a voice dry with dust and hopelessness. The servants, gathered at the doorway with Mulay and Sidi al-Mandri, stood motionless, astounded at the news. Finally, Mandri, with awe in his voice, said simply, So, Ronda’s not impregnable after all. For a few minutes he saw the man as he himself might have looked when he arrived in Fez, frayed and disheveled, with his few worldly possessions. Yet, while he had made a carefully planned choice, this man had lost everything and drunk the bitter cup of exile enforced by the army of the Catholic Kings,

That evening, the story of Ronda was told over and over with more details added each time. The men sat on the cushioned divan of the sitting room, and as Fernando restored himself with yogurt and honey, the assault on the Moorish city built on a flat plateau atop high limestone cliffs in Andalusia became tragically clear. In answer to Mulay’s How? his brother-in-law’s sour reply was Gunpowder! Cannon! And treachery! When Mandri, still resisting the looming finality of the Spanish reconquest, asked, How did you manage to escape? Fernando spread his long fingers on his knees and leaned, looking out the high window at the two horns of Mount Jebel Ech Chaouen darkening in the red-gray clouds of twilight, and spoke.

Allah has blessed you with abundant springs in your mountains here. But, for water, we had only the river that cut the deep gorge below our city. King Ferdinand and his knights choked off the water supply. That ended the siege. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he stared out the window disconsolately.

Kahina chose Sidi Fernando’s long sigh as an opportunity to bring food, signaling the servants to light lanterns and return unobtrusively to the kitchen. She guessed the ending of the story would be bloody and wondered if she could take Ibrahim away to bed before his uncle described how Muslims were beheaded or, more likely, thrown into the gorge. Servants and slaves alike had gathered silently in the darkness of the kitchen to eavesdrop. The Berbers were Muslims too and had learned the cruelty of the Crusader Christian knights. Many had fought in Spain as mercenaries. The cook, who kept a strict orderliness, not only in the kitchen but in most of the kasbah, couldn’t muffle the gasps of surprise or murmurs of foreboding as they listened to Fernando’s grim account of the desperate thirst of the besieged, the King’s triumphal march through the city gates, and the Muslims’ solemn march away as their homes were confiscated, their retreating footfalls on cobblestones of the winding streets marking farewell.

He turned the mosque into a cathedral that same day! the servants whispered to one another, aghast at the blasphemy.

-3-

Zuhra al Hurra bint Banu Rashid

After dawn prayers, Mulay, in yellow leather slippers and a white woolen djellaba, walked softly through the chilled kasbah, rehearsing what he might tell Layla of her brother’s story without arousing the anger they had all felt the night before. At a time like this, he wished he could spare her; she’s vulnerable now, Daniel had warned.

He knocked gingerly, entered, and stood by the bed to enjoy the pleasure of watching her awaken. When she opened her eyes and welcomed him with a drowsy smile, he knelt by the bed, taking a pouch from his waist. From it, he withdrew a heavy necklace of woven gold and arranged it on her breast. He bent tenderly to kiss each slightly distended breast, the source of his child’s nourishment, then kissed her mouth.

A small gift was customary for a new mother, but this exquisite goldsmith’s creation announced Mulay’s extravagant way of thanking her for bearing a child. Daniel knew a Jewish metalsmith who wrought the purest Sijilmassa gold, sent by camel across the formidable dunes and rock-strewn scrub of the Sahara desert. At this moment, Mulay felt a greater tenderness than he could put into words; the necklace spoke for him. For the naming he called the maidservant to bring in the baby. Even if he waited for the usual seven days, the child would still be diminutive in his large hands. He held her up, marveling that one so small felt heavy as she relaxed in complete trust. Startled into wakefulness, her brown eyes looked into his as he spoke.

You will be called Zuhra, after your mother. Zuhra al-Hurra bint Banu Rashid.

Layla, knowing he hoped for a son, saw no hint of regret for a tiny girl child instead. She felt pleased to be honored by him in the name he chose, honoring her family along with his. Over three decades ago, their parents had arranged to join noble houses, and, when she reached fifteen and he, twenty, they were introduced. Papers were signed and an hour later, he carried her off to the bridal bed. Almost immediately a deep intimacy grew between them. Leaving behind a concubine and the son that the woman had given him, Mulay found Layla both a loving companion and an able advisor in governing. Always, in bed, she submitted willingly to her husband as the Quran required.

Tears rose to brighten her eyes as she watched Mulay lingering over the child. Often she praised Allah that their parents chose aptly for them. She knew many planned marriages were forlorn, leaving the spouses desolate and loveless. But, not hers.

With the studied care of a potter surprised by his own fragile art, Mulay handed his daughter over to the former cook, now become the new maidservant, who had witnessed the naming. He dismissed her, turning to Layla. Hurrying away to bring the news to the kitchen, Kahina carried Zuhra tucked into a basket on her hip. Skin like hummus with honey poured over it, she told a manservant she passed in the hall, archly refusing to pull the blanket back to confirm her news. She reported first to the new cook, announcing with a proprietary air, It’s a good omen that the child didn’t cry even once during the naming. She described the necklace for Layla as large and finely wrought, a mark of generous nobility. She has Berber blood in her veins, she proudly reminded all the servants. She knew this child would be remarkable, for she had procured talismans and magical salves from the shaman of her village. And, of course, fixed a miniature, silver Hand of Fatima to the door so no errant jinns might enter.

Turning to Layla, Mulay took her hand in his and said, Your brother has arrived for a visit. Her face clouded. He confirmed the bad news but without details of the artillery assault. The Catholic King laid siege and blocked the water supply, he said. He didn’t mention the treachery of spies who tricked the army into leaving to join the mendaciously reported defense of Malaga. But the people of Ronda were not massacred, he hastened to add in the tone of one who brings good news.

Mulay, are you telling me the truth? Are you trying to spare me? she demanded. Her family had suffered many losses at the hands of bellicose Portuguese knights who ruled and ravaged not far from her family’s estates near Cadiz as Ferdinand and Isabella had slowly pushed Muslims toward the Mediterrranean Sea. Her animosity was close to the surface.

No, I wouldn’t lie to you, Layla. Listen. A surrender was negotiated. The King spared the lives of all the inhabitants on the condition that they leave Ronda immediately. He marched the governor and leaders of Ronda out of their homes and sent them away. Including Fernando’s betrothed and her family.

And the Inquisition? she interrupted impatiently, anticipating public executions or worse. Priests who confiscated property sometimes gave the heretics a choice of becoming Christians or going into exile.

Lucky Fernando wasn’t burned at the stake, she muttered angrily before her husband could answer.

Some were given houses newly vacated by Jews who had been expelled. In Ronda, Christians came in immediately and took the empty houses. Before the enormity of the insult could register, he rushed on to describe Fernando’s escape. In the exodus, he slipped away from those bound for Seville, and traveled a secret trail out of the mountains to Gibraltar. Hired a fishing boat to bring him across the straits and up the river to the ruins of Tetuan. He felt safe there and rested. She listened intently, but he saw tears filling her eyes. Now, Layla, he can tell you himself when he comes to see his niece today. He could hear plaintive wails of the hungry baby being brought from the hallway outside the door. Hastily, he planted a kiss on his wife’s forehead and excused himself.

Half an hour later, after Zuhra had nursed the baby, a servant came to find Mulay. Your wife wishes you to come immediately. He smiled. How well he knew his wife. She was an educated woman, the daughter of a governor and the wife of a governor. This wasn’t about the baby; this was about Ronda.

Mulay, she said when they were alone, I’ve been thinking. He sat on the side of the bed and listened seriously. The siege in Granada will take longer, but many Muslims will be coming here before that happens. Chaouen won’t hold them all. He nodded and stroked his moustache. He’d been thinking the same thing, pondering what expansions he could make, how to provide a haven. The idea of another sanctuary village had come to him just before Mandri arrived, and he had been casually leading him that way in their conversations. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if his wife’s thoughts were borne on the same wind as his own. It happened often.

He brushed his strong, brown hand over his black hair, now silvering at the temples. She reached for the other hand and held it firmly in hers, speaking earnestly. You must convince Aly al-Mandri to rebuild Tetuan, just as you’re rebuilding this place. Maybe Fernando could help him. His anger might bring a fire to the enterprise of building a little Granada for refugees. If Fernando crossed over by boat, he must have come up the river that flows by the old Roman ruins of Tetuan. They had been there once. How shrewd she was! Together, the two men might be able to do it.

If Allah is willing, he added automatically, his amusement showing only in his eyes. Better to let it be her idea, for her brother.

You can persuade him, Mulay. Promise him anything. Once Aly agrees, it’ll be easy to fit Fernando into the plan. If he wants, he can build a villa just like his Ronda home!

***

The following morning as the sun reached over the fortifying walls to warm the room, the three men sat at breakfast and listened to Mulay’s urging. The sounds of donkeys braying, of hammering, and of workmen shouting to each other rose from the town beyond, as if a band of cacophonous tribal musicians had arrived to strengthen Mulay’s argument. The site’s perfect. Mountains protect it on one side. River comes up ending in the ouadi that’s ready to be a shallow water port. And the ruins, Mandri, are Roman ruins. Marble and cement. They’ll outlast three more generations! Believe it or not, they left water pipes and trenches leading from the river to an underground sewer. And stone nearby, so you can pave the streets.

Al-Mandri laughed at his friend’s escalating excitement. He held out his hands, flat, fingers spread, then turned them over and placed the soft, smooth palms with well-trimmed nails on the tile-topped table. Look, Mulay. Soft hands. I’ve only been holding books and reed pens for the last three years. No tools—hammers or axes or trowels. I can barely remember how to lay bricks so they’re level, much less build walls and gates or a kasbah.

Fernando, who hadn’t recovered from being cast out of his home and country, had little to add to Mulay’s fervent persuasions. He went off to visit his sister, leaving the two old friends alone.

At last, leaving the debate about building, Mulay made his best offer. Mandri, you and I can have a powerful Emirate of Chaouen and Tetuan, if you agree. I know the sultan will. To bind it, I offer you my daughter Zuhra for a wife. Betrothal at age thirteen. Marriage if she’s healthy and desirable when she reaches the age of fifteen.

God willing, affirmed Aly al-Mandri, after a long pause, marveling at his friend’s trust. Yesterday he had freely deplored the ineptitude of the Sultan of Fez—in truth, the whole Berber Wattasid dynasty’s ignorance of Quranic laws. But that was before Fernando arrived. Now, his own opinions on Quranic law needed tempering with the shocking reality that, after eight centuries, all Muslims would soon be fleeing al Andalus seeking a home where their religion would assure them of justice. He felt overwhelmed.

To tell you the truth, Mulay, I’ll feel good about getting my hands dirty doing something instead of just reading and talking. As for marriage, it was a long way off. He didn’t give it much thought. After all, this was only the child’s third day.

-4-

News in Fez

Fez, fifteen years later

Eeee-yoo, Zuhra exclaimed, wrinkling her nose beneath the heavy veil that kept out dust but not the acrid smell from tannery vats. The veil and the long, hooded cloak also discouraged the disrespectful gaze of men as she and her mother rode through the northernmost gate in the fortified walls of the city of Fez. The women rode behind Mulay al-Rashid, all three mounted on pure-bred Barbary horses with fine leather saddles. Unburdened pack mules led by the servants came last. The small caravan planned to carry back to Chaouen the luxury goods required for Zuhra’s wedding.

Layla had expected her daughter’s childhood to linger magically, but the seasons had sped by. Zuhra developed as an energetic child, ceaselessly testing the rules, although more from curiosity than malice. She pestered her brother who taunted her with his freedom to do what she wasn’t allowed to do; she sneaked away from the terrace to invade the garden trespassing on Mulay’s important meetings; she galloped her horse along forbidden trails disbelieving the dangers she was warned of; and she tried the patience of her devoted Kahina, forcing a state of perpetual exasperation on her guardian. Mulay had readily forgiven all. But marriage would bring change, just as winter looms past summer, he realized.

Responsibility weighed heavily on Layla, for she had been the one to urge this choice on Mulay. It’s always a father’s decision anyway, she told herself in justification, although she had urged it. If Zuhra must be betrothed to someone by the age of five, it might as well be someone they knew and liked. And he’s still young enough to give her sons. Jarred from her reverie, she almost said her last thought aloud. Suddenly she awakened to the sprawling, city whose massive walls looped around a wide expanse of hills and embraced traffic undreamed of in Chaouen.

You won’t turn up your nose at the tanneries when you see the beautiful black slippers made for brides, said Mulay. He looked down to the riverside below at the round stone vats where hides were scraped, softened and dyed deep poppy red, sulfuric yellow and cobalt blue. He was indulging his daughter, now in her fifteenth year, betrothed and to be married in weeks. Shopping in Fez would be his last chance to lavish her with exotic clothes and jewelry before he passed total responsibility for her to Mandri as promised.

The riverside view of butchering and leather-making, the olive oil mill, and the potter’s kilns gave way to streets crowded with streams of men, tethered animals, and clusters of market stalls. A storyteller sat just inside the wide arch of the gate, talking to a group of men seated on the ground, undisturbed by the rhythmic blows of the blacksmith nearby or the clatter of carts carrying fresh fish and sheep’s heads. Or, not least, the smell of donkey droppings.

Zuhra nudged her horse closer to her mother’s, lifted her veil and said, So this is what you meant by the famous Market of the Perfumers? The merriment Layla saw in her eyes lightened the sarcasm in her voice. Layla lifted her eyebrows in response, and said, You’ll have to mend your saucy wit when you speak to your husband. Although Mulay doted on his daughter, Zuhra spared him much of the impudence her mother permitted.

Mulay’s small caravan wound through the narrow streets of packed dirt until they reached the quarter of the city where Fernando and his family welcomed them. Forced to leave behind his betrothed in Ronda, he had since married another Andalusian, who had given him two sons. Fernando struggled with impatience through the extended courtesies that were an obligatory part of Arabic hospitality. A simple merhaba would have been enough, grumbled Zuhra under her breath; she was tired of the smells and the dust. As soon as the women were led away to wash off the grime of travel, Fernando burst forth with the news of the latest events in Granada.

Mulay, the bad news from al Andalus has arrived at last. Ferdinand of Castile has declared Granada a Christian kingdom. You know what that means!

Thousands more refugees, surely, said Mulay, only partly taken by surprise. The Reconquest is complete, he added weakly, shrugging at the tragedy. That’s what the bloodthirsty Catholic Kings called it—Reconquest!

The talk in the neighborhood is that Christian armies may push on to North Africa. An alarmed Fernando, now a high-ranking military officer, was one step ahead of Mulay, who had thought of refugees but not of the obvious—a Spanish invasion. The two men left the house immediately and joined others in the street, talking furiously as they hurried to the Andalus mosque. The muezzin’s call to evening prayers was expected, but the men would have gathered there anyway. In the nearby medersa courtyard, Mulay spotted his son Ibrahim talking animatedly in a knot of fellow university students. War is men’s work, he thought, but it mustn’t dampen the women’s wedding preparations.

Later that night, Mulay and Layla, unable to sleep, talked about the family’s future. Over and over, I heard at the mosque, how secure everyone feels because the son of the Sultan of Fez maintains a large army, and hates the Portuguese. Layla reminded Mulay that he had foreseen most of this when he persuaded her to leave Spain. Tetuan was being built for such an eventuality, my dear, she added. The alliance with Aly would allow Chaouen and Tetuan to be a sanctuary and a bulwark, Insh’Allah.

Perhaps Fernando will now feel needed in Tetuan, speculated Mulay, thinking of how he could quietly prod him to build a militia. However, he announced firmly, Tomorrow, we’ll take our daughter to the souks to shop joyfully and extravagantly.

Mulay spent little thought on the anxieties that beset his wife. His daughter was beautiful, her skin a smooth ginger color, her eyes a beguiling brown with golden glints and long black lashes, a small but perfect nose. Somewhat short, she was petite. Under the voluminous wedding dress, he was certain Aly would find pert budding breasts and a demure button in her barely discernible belly. Long black hair was framed by a few unruly curls around her thin face which suggested the groom would delight in a glorious forest to explore in the regions below her belly, but then, that was not for a father to imagine. A wedding is one of the two biggest celebrations in a woman’s life, he reminded himself, and they must not