Pech Souleila: Sidi Kafir

By Falakpema

The story of the green knight who defended Tyre against the besieging army of
Saladin is bequeathed to us as a remarkable feat of chivalrous tradition. Sidi Kafir
resuscitates this historical legend by making him the last pagan Viking caught up in the
turmoil of the Crusades. As a vagrant adventurer looking for new horizons, Ulyssess
nordic son is on a personal odyssey in search of love and knightly prowess.
Its lessons are so relevant today: the clash of civilisations, alike the original Crusades,
tears asunder the harmony amongst peoples by its sterile, warlike confrontation that
knows no issue other than mutual distrust and destruction, instead of convivencia,
cooperation and mutual respect.
The medieval age saw the rebirth of international trade, as during the Roman age, along
the silk and spice routes linking the Orient to the Occident. This trade renaissance is a
recurrent theme that now dominates the debate on globalisation.
Its origins are examined here with the birth of Italian city republics, which created the
monetary system at Venice, then the manufacturing base in Tuscany in the Renaissance age.
The pursuit of happiness through growing grapevines, imported from Palestine to Europe
in the form of the Chardonnay grape, is a legendary legacy to epicurean man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jul 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462856985

Falakpema

Falakpema is an international traveller and business executive with multicultural roots. His personal experience has given him a vivid insight into the working mind of those who currently rule the world as harbingers of a new world order that transfers inordinate riches to a new global oligarchy at the expense of the silent majority of middle-class people, the very backbone of democratic society. A new form of feudalism, moving force of global, transnational, financial power-play, makes historic reference to that bygone age appear very relevant to understanding current times.

Book preview

I

During the reign of Roger II, the Norman kingdom of Sicily had been transformed into one of the most resplendent courts of Europe. He was a direct descendant of Robert and Roger Guiscard de Hauteville, the first Norman barons to invade Italy nearly a century earlier; thus transforming into Frankish domain, through conquest of the Mediterranean isle, the surrounding regions of Italy.

In 1128, Roger II had succeeded in uniting all the Norman principalities of the de Hauteville family into one centralised kingdom, after a prolonged struggle with the papal state, the German emperor, as well as their traditional, common enemy the Byzantine Empire. With its capital at Palermo, its territories covering the whole of southern Italy bordering the papal states, it rivalled in splendour with the Angevin Empire of Henry II, the Plantagenet king of England, as of most of western France, subsequent to his marriage with Eleanor of Aquitaine.

Roger’s grandson, Guillaume or William II, now occupied the throne at Palermo. His court thronged with dignitaries of all lands who added munificence and prestige to his reign. The Sicilian Navy had dominated the Mediterranean seas, ensuring free access to its ports for ships coming from as far away as Viking Norway, as those, full of salt and spices, coming from Arab Alexandria. This was their entrance point to Latin Europe. Its tolerant culture, as practised by the king, who had many Muslim concubines and Maliks as courtiers, allowed the Moors, established in Sicily since the ninth century, to share the glory of power and riches with their fellow Christian Sicilians. Indeed, Sicily could boast a pre-eminence both cultural and commercial in the Mediterranean that cast a shadow on the unrivalled dominance of Constantinople as the only commercial interlocutor with the Muslim world.

In the year 1173 of our Lord, as they said in those times, the torrid heat of the Sicilian summer had reduced into torpid slumber the Moorish quarter of Palermo, located in the heart of the low city adjoining the commercial port. Here, the ships came first to dock, then to render their bowels full of spices, salt, cloths, tissues, and draperies, of all origins and of unmatched refinement; displaying to the avid eyes of local merchants the infinite variety of their opulent goods, including the glittering array of jewels and ornaments that came from Moorish Spain, from the far-off lands of the Indies, or from mythical Cathay.

The silence of the hot midday was suddenly shattered by a squadron of armed men that invaded the narrow winding streets of the kasbah around its marketplace, the souk, in pursuit of a shadowy, quick-footed prey, whose fleet and dancing profile meandered through the ruelles, narrow alleys, with surprising ease.

After much hewing and crying, scouring around in the intricate byways of the kasbah, toing and froing among the myriad of its maze-like exits, the pursuers gave up the chase, having reluctantly realised that the pursued was too clever and knowledgeable of the intricacies of the local topography for them to achieve capture. Once the quietude of the somnolent afternoon returned to the narrow, empty streets of the quarter, the shadowy figure emerged from the corners of a dark alley and then pursued his way calmly up to the northern quarters of the town.

Here were lodged the Navarran troops in the service of the dowager Queen of Sicily, Marguerite of Navarre. Mother to the incumbent king and, until recently, Queen Regent herself, she had ruled after the death of her husband, William I, a half decade earlier. She now resided in the heart of the old palace in Palermo, in splendid isolation from her ruling son, living in his new palace of Moorish design.

Tall, open-faced, lithe of build, the soldier’s boyish demeanour, fair-headed charm and imposing height radiated a nonchalant ease that endeared him immediately to the passing stranger, especially of the female sex.

The Spanish guard recognised him at the entrance of the palace gate and let him through with an acknowledging nod. He made his way unhurriedly to the lodging quarters. On crossing the open hall filled with statues portraying relics of Roman days, he ran into Captain Almagro, a tall, swarthy, Catalonian mercenary.

‘Hola, Sven! Are there no women to play suit to in the kasbah for you to be here so early on your day off duty?’ the captain saluted his presence in ill-conceived astonishment, grinning sardonically. His new soldier recruit was a known adventurer.

The youthful soldier smiled and then responded, ‘I had a debt to settle. It is done. Now I can return to my pursuits of loving the princess of the kasbah. De amore . . . wine and songs… and pleasures of de amore… de amore.’

The captain, who had a penchant for loving poetical tales of chivalry and bravery, laughed. He knew of Sven’s growing reputation. ‘Don’t lose your health and your purse with women of such resolve. Find yourself a "bella donna", move up in the world. There are so many who are unmarried and look for a young, sincere suitor.’

‘I am an adventurer, Captain, a rolling stone. I will go one day to the Holy Land. What have I to offer a bella donna, who looks for a man to father offsprings to thus save the family’s future and preserve its fortune against encroaching rivals?’

‘So, Sven, apart from war and women, you have no other interests of more substantial nature here, in this land of plenty, where we strangers are all so welcome?’

‘One day, Captain, you must tell me more of Rodrigo Diaz, El Campeador. His legend fascinates me.’ The other responded, ignoring the thrust of the query, diverting the moral tone of admonishment by his own insolent enquiry.

‘Young man, you are incorrigible. But now I am awaited at the palace. When you and I meet again, you will buy me a pitcher of good Cypriot or Malaga sweet wine. Then I will gladly tell you tales of the Reconquista, of Rodrigo and… Ximena, his beloved!’ said the amused captain, falling for the bait of chivalrous storytelling.

‘So be it. Ximena, I dream of already!’ said Sven. They laughed in spontaneous complicity as they parted, Sven to his quarters, Captain Almagro to the palace.

The next day saw the tall figure, blond-headed and blue-eyed, stroll down to the kasbah, where the bustle of the morning crowd contrasted with the quiet of the previous afternoon. Vendors were selling their merchandise in the crowded streets while a rich woman in a palanquin, held by four pall-bearers, was in heated conversation with a spice merchant. The perfume of a thousand fragrances permeated Sven’s nostrils, titillating his senses, with the opulence of morning jasmine and fresh lavender. Dark, emerald eyes blazed their languorous appraisal of his nonchalant demeanour, as ruby lips spoke the sweet poetry of acquisitive bargaining, coaxing favours from the spice merchant, under the threat, hardly veiled, of gracious displeasure.

Sven was hungry. He knew where he could drink some spiced wine or cooled sherbet, served with honey bread full of dried raisins. He smiled a lazy, dazzling smile to the fair, scented lady and saw the gleam of sensual recognition in those eyes.

‘Bella donna!’ mused Sven. ‘Here is succulent fruit for nights of the full moon. Serenades in scented gardens, on the heights of the city where the rich palaces are.’

‘Young sir, can you convince this Moorish merchant that he is unreasonable and my patience is running thin?’ The smouldering eyes and the ruby lips, spoke in unison to Sven, in a plea that made his heartbeat jump by leaps and bounds.

He seized the opportunity offered as his pulse quickened.

‘Sang bleu, good merchant, do you hear what the lady says?’ he barked in bad French to the bearded Moor. Everybody in Palermo spoke different dialects of French, the lingua franca, since the Norman conquest of the island.

The aged, white-bearded Moor shook his head at Sven’s imposing presence, insisting, ‘These are first-quality spices from the markets of Alexandria. Pepper, black as night in Hades, cinnamon rods, choice saffron powder, fresh garlic and ginger sharp as a knife’s keen blade. So rich in value that my lady will astonish her guests if she uses them, as she should when feasting the great, the magnificent of this town. I am but an honest merchant. In the markets of France or Italy, the price is double what we ask here in Palermo. As we receive directly the freshest, the choicest of spices, from the Levant, from Alexandria and from Seville.’

‘Give her a good price. She will buy more from you,’ ventured Sven.

He added with a wink, ‘I will buy the silk cloth that I see in your shop as well the jars of sweet, Cyprus wine, if you make her a price. I have a lady of my own to pay my tribute to and my own feasting to do.’

‘For you, good sir, I will make an effort as you will buy my silk and my excellent wine as well.’ The merchant offered double the quantity to the lady for a reduction in the unit price. ‘Take it or leave it, good lady. No more bargaining. It is my best price and only to please this young master who will oblige me as well.’

The lady acquiesced with a gracious smile to Sven. Her commanding, intense eyes told her servants to collect the merchandise, once prepared and ready for delivery. She whispered into the ear of her domestic companion, a veiled girl of Moorish descent. They murmured in a strange dialect. After a last smouldering look at her benefactor, she disappeared into the throng, her palanquin swaying slowly as it fled away from Sven’s gaze. The servant girl, having stayed alone, came back towards Sven, whispering softly into his ear, her voice sweet, fresh, enticing like a melodious promise, ‘This evening, by the golden gate of the Great Church, I will wait for you at sunset. Do not fail to be there.’ Then she left as swiftly and deftly as her sandaled, henna-dotted feet could carry her towards the fast-vanishing palanquin.

Sven sparkled inwardly at this unexpected turn of events. After concluding his purchases with the merchant, he strolled away, penetrating into the deep entrails of the kasbah, taking the narrow, winding maze of alleys with surprising ease. They led him to a courtyard and a house made of baked earth bricks painted with the familiar reddish ochre paint, so common in Palermo. Beyond the walls lay visible a sheltered patio, protected by a large wooden gate, bolted from the inside, whose intricate mosaic of arabesque, wooden carvings, allowed the sun to filter through gently into the courtyard beyond. Here, in the secluded shade of lemon and orange trees, freshened by the sound of water trickling from a fountain into the round pond situated in the middle of the patio, sat the Moorish girls, taking the morning air like fresh doves. There was the quiet buzz of female chatter and laughter amongst them, which immediately subsided upon his appearance at the gate.

A veiled girl came to the gate of the female hostel and said ‘Salam’, to which he replied likewise. He told her he was there to see Zobeida.

The girl smiled knowingly, eyes alit, bowed, and then disappeared into the silence of the house. Soon, a tall, supple form appeared in the shadow of the inner door and beckoned him in. He followed her into a dark alcove that led into a simple living room, with walls painted white and littered with oriental tapestries. They were alone.

She was lightly dressed, and her bosom flowered impudently under the veil of thin, silk embroidery that clasped her glossy skin. It finished around her exposed navel that spoke silently to his eyes, an enticing promise studding her tiny waist, like a sensual jewel set in its henna circle of tiny dots.

‘How is my loved one today?’ she purred, looking at him with warm, soft, liquid eyes.

‘Surely a richer man, if you have in your possession the merchant’s bag that I transmitted to you yesterday, under strange circumstances, I admit.’ He smiled at her. His voice, easy and light as a summer breeze, caressed her presence.

‘Yes, I do. I promise you I have not ventured to open it in your absence.’ She retorted softly. Looking knowingly, she enquired, ‘Is my prince now a robber as well?’

‘Just a man who gets what is his honest due from a robber merchant. A man who tried to exploit his naivety sometime ago,’ he replied quietly. ‘I fear no man, and I bear no shame for what I do,’ he reassured her.

‘That’s a relief,’ she sighed, looking convinced in the face of his brave front.

She disappeared and then returned with the large, pouched bag. They opened the leather string that knotted the neck of the fabric. In it were a large variety of jewels and ornaments, most ostentatious of which was a silver, Moorish dagger, large by its size, broad of blade with a curved beak, made of finest steel, enclosed in a glittering silver metal sheath, and encrusted with precious stones and fine engravings. Its pommel of pure silver was likewise encrusted with jewels. On the dagger blade was writing of exquisite finesse in Arab letters. Along with it lay a jumble of precious stones, glinting like starry-eyed, silent treasures in the form of rings, bracelets, pearl necklaces, and ornaments of all sorts. They were subdued into astonished silence by the quality of goods thus displayed before their admiring eyes.

‘This is worth a true prince’s ransom,’ Zobeida whispered in wonderment.

‘I am truly amazed at what we have found in this magnificent catch.’ Sven laughed, his eyes flashing with delight.

‘So what will you do with all these jewels?’ She almost suffocated in her speech.

‘No idea! I shall keep the dagger, as fair wager for my past labour unpaid. The rest is beyond me.’

The silence seemed so deep they floundered in it. Then she offered, ‘Maybe I can help. I know a rich Moorish jewel merchant in town, who can sell these precious stones discreetly, in far-off places, at a good price.’

‘I do not think the former owner will make a formal complaint to the authorities. He is an unscrupulous thief. As such, this is bounty stolen from a thief who has no legal claim to it. I’ll bet my life on it.’ He maintained his peculiar logic of a vagrant.

They looked at each other, pondering the financial potency of the situation.

Sven’s mind wandered silently to more pleasant thoughts, as the physical intimacy of his delicious companion made her female presence felt to his aroused senses.

‘I must admit I am ravenously hungry,’ he ventured through teasing lips, breaking the train of thought that started to pervade his whole being.

She laughed. ‘Thousand pardons, my prince. Wait and you will be served,’ she whispered conspiratorially as she vanished like a celestial vision. He sat down on the cushions strewed in one corner of the room and stretched his legs on the thin rugs. She soon returned, a long, languorous swish of silent satin accompanying the undulating movement of her lightly draped hips, her hands holding the precious prize of a plateful of the honey bread and a pitcher of fresh sherbet, so common in Muslim houses.

‘No wine for my sweet poet so early in the day.’ She smiled.

He kissed her fingertips as she bent to place the tray of victuals at his feet.

Her bosom heaved tightly from the excited acknowledgment of his presence as she bent forward on dainty feet. Her feet glowed from their decorative henna patterns and her skin breathed its perfume of jasmine mixed with the fruity fragrance of orange blossoms.

Their past encounters during the preceding days were still impregnated in their thoughts. He said nothing and ate silently, all the time gazing at her, seeing her increasingly flush and blush under the unabashed scrutiny of his wanton eyes. ‘Did you miss me?’ she purred to him, fanning his thoughts to fever pitch.

‘I dreamt of you as I dreamt of my catch,’ he replied, sipping his sherbet in long, hungry gulps.

She was like a kitten who wanted to play. That amused him terribly. Later, she would become a tigress in the full blaze of sultry passion. That he knew from past experience. She was breathtaking and impetuous, and so expressive in sensual desire and loving agility. They were falling into the grasps of mutual infatuation, and it pleased him.

‘So tell me, my accomplice in adventure, what really happened yesterday? I saw nothing of it.’ She was as curious as he was enamoured by her presence.

‘You are better off not knowing who they were for your own sake. When I had done what I had to do, I first disappeared from their sight, before tossing the prize to you, sheltered behind the wall in the alcove where I had asked you to stand. Then I led them astray as they charged in. After they lost track of me, they gave up the chase… you could go your way. Simple enough, if properly planned and executed,’ he concluded soberly, like a soldier describing a military manoeuvre.

‘But did you kill anyone?’ she blurted, her face flushing, realising now that she had risked her life through becoming, unknowingly, his accessory in armed robbery of doubtful morality, whatever her lover may have said earlier in sheer bravado.

‘Knocked a few heads and scared the merchant silly with my sword as he dropped his purse, like a flushed partridge, into my hands. Before they knew it, I was away. The rest you know, although you saw nothing but heard most of it.’

His explanation was so matter-of-fact. She wondered in amazement how men could be so callous and yet brave at the same time. It made him all the more endearing to her feminine heart, as apparently, he really cared for her.

‘And for your courage and fidelity…,’ he said through still-hungry lips, having wiped clean the plate of sweet bread, as he approached his face so close to hers, ‘I ask you to find your merchant. We shall share the profits of the sale of the jewels, half and half. But sell them slowly. Do not show him all you have in one go. It’s safest that way. Meanwhile… I have this to say to you, my princess.’

Finding the look of gratitude and relief in her liquid eyes at hearing these words, he drew her towards him. She fell willingly into his arms, melting like warm, fragrant wax under the fire of his impassioned kisses. Rumpled silk came off like peeled skin. Wordlessly, his fingers revealed her dark nipples to his hungry lips, and his kisses coaxed her shoulders, back, and hips to plunge into dire, fragile nakedness. Their denuded bodies became strangely entwined like mingled strands of climbing ivy.

The morning blazed on into deep afternoon. But our turtle doves found that the day had fled at a speed that defied the laws of time, as it was spent in teasingly sensual loving and impetuously joyful living. Later, their murmurings thrived in the drowsy light; their senses revived as he played tunes on her warm, enticing shoulders.

Having washed in the hamam after his amorous escapade, Sven bade a temporary farewell to a languorous, sighing Zobeida, reluctant to see him go.

‘You are dearer to me than all the tales of Sinbad the sailor. You are my djinn, from the lamp of Aladdin. You transport me so far on your magic carpet, when you possess my all. Stronger than wine what you make me feel, from your embraces.’

‘Like Sinbad, I must leave you to live my soldier adventures, only to come back to find your loving arms for solace. Zobeida, I’ll dream of you when I’m alone,’ he promised, ever the fleeing adventurer that he was. ‘So forget me not.’

Sven made his way unhurriedly towards the upper town and the magnificent cathedral adjoining the old Norman palace, where Roger II had been crowned. It had been partially damaged during a recent earthquake and was under repairs. It adorned one of the summits of the town, overlooking the teeming bay of Palermo.

The ancient roman church, destroyed and rebuilt, converted into a mosque by the Moorish invaders in the ninth century, was a mixture of architectural styles.

The intricate Moorish decorations, designs, and beautiful, elegant arches, blended with the Byzantine dome as well the square, Roman turrets. It was the pride of Palermo.

The gold-ornamented wooden door, leading into the principal inner cathedral nave, was the meeting point that had been designated, earlier in the day, by the Moorish domestic.

The sun was fast setting when Sven arrived in front of the golden gateway.

Almost surreptitiously, a shadow emerged from one of the porches of the church, beckoning him to follow. It was the attendant-messenger girl. He followed her fast-walking feet for sometime towards the higher quarters of the town. Finally, she led him into an alley leading up to the palatial residential area around the king’s La Ziza summer palace. There, in the corner of a ruelle, far from the bustle of the crowd, the girl stopped suddenly. Turning on her heels she spoke to Sven, ‘My lady awaits you in the garden beyond the high wall. Here is the key to the door you can see. Enter and wait for her under the array of palm trees that surround you once inside the garden. When you leave, deposit the key under the stone decoration adjacent to the gate.’ Having spoken, the girl bowed her head in gracious salute and then disappeared further up the alley into an obscure doorway leading into a nondescript house, adjacent to the walled compound in front of which stood Sven.

Sven sauntered into the flowered garden. The song of chirping birds highlighted the surrounding silence of this peaceful heaven. He looked beyond where the heavy shades in one of the windows stirred as a fleeting face emerged, peering anxiously out into the garden. A minute later, the sound of soft feet pattered down the steps. A figure approached rapidly through the foliage. It was another servant girl. She beckoned him respectfully to follow her. He wonderingly obliged. They went into a secluded part of the garden where the scent of jasmine and rose petals pervaded. A woman was reclining on a shaded divan, peacock feather fan in one hand. It was the lady of the palanquin.

Sven greeted her with a debonair nod and saw her mouth curve into a gracious smile. ‘We meet again, Chevalier.’ He bowed to acknowledge her greeting, keeping her eyes clearly fixed by his own all the time.

‘Bella donna, you are very kind to invite me here into the intimacy of your private heaven. I am honoured, truly enthralled. In what way can I be of service to you?’ He spoke smoothly, his nonchalant voice hiding the excitement that swelled in his heart at the sight of such fragrant magnificence. The peacock fan fluttered in slow palpitations as their eyes spoke silently their mutual recognition of nascent desire.

She responded to the wide-eyed wonderment his open face portrayed as his teeth shone white in a broad smile.

‘You have already been of service, good sir. But I do need your precious services in different ways.’ She added these last words teasingly, like a potent promise of a thousand, unimaginable delights.

Sven warmed to her aura of glowing sensuality and found her exquisite feet of sublime proportions. Her allure was resplendent of feminine charms, like an offering laid out on a plate for his admiring gaze, its gracious forms so thinly veiled from his loitering eyes by muslin tinsel, fine and flimsy like cotton clouds.

‘What does a lady of your evident means require from a poor adventurer like myself?’ He found it difficult to believe his fortunes thus on the rise before such a magnificent prize.

‘Adventure!’ she replied simply. ‘Adventure that has its risks but also its rewards.’

She went on in a low, intimately confidential tone. ‘Let me explain. I am the daughter of a famous nobleman of Palermo. I am betrothed to a sea captain of the royal navy who is, alas, often at sea. I have a commercial interest of my own. Currently, our affairs with the Levant have so developed that we need able, resourceful men to assist our trade and for the protection of our ships coming into our port.’

She looked at him to fathom his resolve and comprehension, and then continued,

‘Only recently, here in Palermo, our agents have been robbed of merchant cargoes rightfully ours, as they were fully paid for at port of embarkation, by the deviate schemes of foreign merchants and their hired hands—piratical acts on the seas and now even here in our very own port of Palermo!’

Sven coughed drily. ‘I am aware, good lady, of these tales of highway robbery. The streets are abuzz of such doings. Only last week, our captain was telling us that the city council was talking of doubling the guard around the port area and seconding men from the royal dowager’s personal guard, of which I have the honour of being a new recruit.’

After a pause, looking him straight in the eye, she said, ‘Good. But I want you in my private service, for my personal use as well.’

It was evident that Sven interested her for more reasons other than the strength of his long and agile arms.

‘I pay well and will cover your lithe, manly body with silver coins, if you serve me to my entire satisfaction.’

The intention was now only too clear.

He approached her closely and whispered into her deliciously formed ear, ‘As long as your service does not kill me before I can benefit from the reward you so kindly offer.’

‘If you die, it will be probably because you will yearn for it so earnestly that your heart will not stand the effort of toiling for it… with ardent, impetuous nobility,’ she retorted, teasing him into enticing submission. With tantalising intimacy, she added, ‘If I receive you here, it is because this house is reserved solely for me and my personal domestics. No person in the service of my lord husband has access here. Just my own servants.’

She was insistent, making him understand the honour she thus bestowed on him and the confidentiality that this required from him in return.

He obliged, saying, ‘I am truly honoured and will never betray your trust, good lady. You need not fear. So it is here that I will receive my rewards from your… hands, if I succeed in my enterprise in the service of your interests?’

‘Here and nowhere else, in this simple garden, under the moonlit sky… in the form of my person, by my gracious goodwill, to please the generous impulses of my wistful heart. For the rest… it will depend on the earnestness and sincerity of your own heart and its hidden desires.’

‘Do you desire me, good lady, like I desire you so avidly, for you to be so frank and forthcoming as to tie me into a thousand knots, like a slave enchained by the secret goddess of love?’ His intelligence tried to fathom her blatant stratagem.

‘I need passion, like a desert flower needs water. I am not a simple, young maid, unflowered. But a woman who can fulfil your earthly desires… beyond your wildest dreams,’ she added, through half-closed, dreamy eyes.

Her words surprised him as they belied her evident youth. Was she a siren from another age to be so sure of her purpose, like a young queen whose destiny was pre-written in stone? They were so similar in age and in sensual inclination.

He looked at her wonderingly, her emerald green irises hiding nothing of her impassioned soul from his admiring gaze. He imagined them entwined in blissful joy, giving substance to his fantasy, as his eyes devoured her unashamedly, absorbing the glowing intimacy of her contours. She returned his scrutiny without blushing, if anything, with added interest, as her feet moved enchantingly, making the thin, shimmering fabric covering her thighs whisper enticingly to his senses.

An accomplished young, vibrant woman who was ready to pay for his charms, to get the service that normally Sven would have to pay for himself, in a secluded harem of the kasbah. What a reversal of fortunes!

‘My services are required by the dowager Queen Marguerite of Navarre. She has been the true ruler of this kingdom, I am told, before her son came of age some two years ago. Now she has many enemies amongst the local nobility and needs protection as her rule was not without conflict. I am told this by those who have been in her service for many years, as I am new to her service,’ he added cautiously.

‘You are well informed. I have no quarrel with your engagement in Her Royal Highness’s services. Only, now she has lost her power. This will leave you much free time, as she will quickly lose her influence over her son, the king. This I can assure you of.’ Her eyebrows arched as she appraised him defiantly. She added knowingly with sugary assurance, ‘So if you want to look to your future, find yourself another mistress who may be of greater service to your fame and fortune in the years to come, as benefactor and more…’

‘I thank you for your kind advice. I would willingly that you guide my choice in such endeavour,’ said Sven, falling under her spell; such was her magnetism.

‘It is done,’ she added with a quiet laugh, in her rich, low-key voice. ‘Say no more and be available for my services. My servant Miranda will be our messenger. She will advise you, twice a week, of what is required from you in my services, at the usual meeting place.’ There was such a decided look about her that heightened her soft beauty. It quickened his pulse, challenging his male resolve.

He kissed her hands, letting his humid lips linger during that long moment, thus transmitting a promise embedded in her pink flesh, like a sensual omen.

‘I count the days,’ he simply added.

‘And I, the nights,’ she replied, with gleaming eyes, as he turned to leave her.

While Sven lived his romantic intrigues in the heights of Palermo’s rich, noble quarters, Zobeida went about her ways in the secluded cage of her Malik’s harem in the kasbah. She was the ninth child of a poor, fruit merchant from Corleone, a secluded rural village not far from Palermo, where the Moors had a large peasant community. Her father, unable to feed his teeming fold, had sold her as serf to the village noble, a Malik, who owned a silk factory in Palermo.

This tradition of selling one’s feminine progeny was common in poor Muslim households, as also amongst the Christians, of that feudal age. Over the years, a large community of village girls, including Zobeida’s family, had been transported to Palermo, to service this all-exclusive feminine activity, where the silk thread was grown and preserved.

At the age of fifteen, Zobeida had become the youngest, nubile acquisition to the Malik’s harem. Her integration into this all-woman environment had proved problematic. Although extremely pretty and graceful of appearance, she was an unsubmissive rebel by nature.

Seduced at early age, taken often at his own pleasure by her Malik, she grew difficult to please or to give pleasure over time, as her nature affirmed itself.

For this lese-majesty, she was banished from the harem, relegated to more mundane chores, like going to the market to buy the daily produce for the household of thirty women and her lord and washing their laundry.

This relative freedom allowed her to develop her own place, where her rival concubines were only too pleased to confine her, given her beautiful, sultry charms. She became, over the months, the confidant of all the young girls who worked in the factory—a leader of sorts of the female serf community, kept at bay from the male concupiscence of their lord by the jealous coterie of concubines. It was a well-known fact in Muslim households that the senior wife ruled the roost amongst the frustrated, bickering concubines.

In this situation, Zobeida, as a banished favourite, found her choice place, by being the one who aided and abetted the first lady of the house, thus avoiding the situation where any young, unflowered maiden ever finished, unwittingly or deviously, in the lord’s bed. This unwritten zanana or harem protocol allowed her a degree of freedom amongst the hostel girls. It saved her from the humiliations of the harem concubines. She was her own mistress to organise her free time outside her daily chores. Her family cousins all worked in the silk thread factory, work that required much training, for which she showed no early inclination of her own.

It was during her trips to the market to make her daily purchases at the souk that she had been accosted by this fair-haired, blue-eyed, fair-skinned soldier, so appealing to her young, unvanquished heart. Together they had become accomplices in adventure. He used her to find out the comings and goings of the ships of one Bartolemeo of Amalfi into the port where she knew most of the Moorish fishermen. Later, as their intimacy grew, she fell into his arms like a ripe, summer fruit, giving