“You’re a madman. You know there are sheikhs at court dying for an excuse to have you flogged.”
“I don’t care,” said Hassan. “It was very, very good wine.”
Fatima rubbed her eyes. She thought with longing of the sleeping mat waiting for her at the foot of Lady Aisha’s divan.
“And the boy who served it to me—you know what I’m saying, Fa, you’re such a clever girl—his name was Rajab, and he left and came back, and when he came back, he told me the most extraordinary thing. There are real live Castilians at our gates. I mean, they’ve been at our gates for decades, but now they’re inside our gates, and the sultan wants me to come and show him where the rest of them are. But I need pencil and paper to show him that. It’s not as if I see things. I’m not one of these unwashed mystics. My brain is in my fingers. That’s all. In my fingers.” He waved his hands to demonstrate.
“You need to get sober,” said Fatima.
“When did you become no fun whatsoever? And what the hell are you wearing?”
Fatima looked down. The outline of her breasts was visible, in exquisite detail, through the sheer fabric of her robe. She clapped one arm over her chest.
“Get sober,” she repeated, then hurried toward the kitchens, dodging page boys who balanced shoes and basins of rose water in their arms, and prepared herself for the sort of night that ran headlong into morning.
Chapter 3
The delegation arrived well after midnight, in a limp hour that was neither very late nor very early. Fatima waited for them in the Court of Lions with her mistress and the other palace women, all scented and dressed as if for a wedding: the freewomen veiled in pale silk, Fatima and the other slaves bareheaded. Lady Aisha had demanded that Nessma surrender her second-best robe for Fatima to wear. There had been an argument and tears, and now Fatima was balancing a copper platter of bread and olive oil in both hands, wearing a beaded azure gown that was too short at the hem and too big around the bust and hips. She could hear Nessma sniffling some distance behind her.
“No one is to bow,” instructed Lady Aisha, her face inscrutable beneath a layer of saffron-colored gauze. “It’s not our way. The men might bow to you, but you are not to bow in return. Do not look them in the eyes, even though they will stare at you without shame. They may stink, my dears, for northerners are not fond of bathing, but you are not to remark on the smell.”
Someone giggled.
“And do not speak to the men, now or ever,” said Lady Aisha sharply. “The men are not our concern. We are here to receive their ladies, whoever they may be. Nothing more.”
Fatima shifted on her aching feet. The weight of the platter seemed immense, though it was only a little bread—so little, in fact, that the cook had artfully arranged it with sprigs of flowers to disguise its meagerness. Fatima craned her neck to stare at the torchlit colonnade at the far end of the courtyard.
“How much longer?” she asked.
“Hush, impudence,” said Lady Aisha, poking her in the ribs with a bony finger. “What will the foreigners think if we can’t even manage our girl slaves? Pretend to be meek and obedient for once in your life. It will be good practice.”
A moment later, there were voices approaching, punctuated by the ringing clatter of armored feet. Abu Abdullah entered the courtyard in a fresh turban and an embroidered coat, his bodyguards following a discreet distance behind, carrying pikes. The sultan’s head was bent toward the man walking beside him. He was short, the man was: square, perhaps forty, with a full head of sun-blanched brown hair and a trim beard. He was dressed in ceremonial armor, his half helm tucked beneath one arm. Other men, similarly dressed, followed behind him, and behind them their own guards, one of whom carried the colorless flag of peace.
“Ah.” Abu Abdullah stopped when he saw Fatima and the others arrayed in front of the lion-headed fountain, as if he was surprised to see them there. “Of course, forgive me—these are the honored women of my house, who are eager to play host to your own.”
“Ladies,” said the square man beside the sultan, sweeping back his free hand and corresponding foot in an elaborate bow. Fatima willed herself not to laugh.
“May I address them?” asked the man, rising again, his face somewhat flushed.
“You may,” said the sultan drily, “though I hope you will not be offended if they do not address you. These are my wives, the ladies Maryam and Hurriya. My half sister Nessma. And my mother, the lady Aisha. Also their companions and attendants.”
“Of course,” said the man, bowing again. “The lady Aisha’s wisdom and—and shrewd diplomacy, let’s say—are known to us in the North. We all remember who really brokered peace after the battle of Loja.”
Fatima watched Lady Aisha out of the corner of her eye. Aisha inclined her head ever so slightly.
“My dear ladies,” said the man, tugging nervously at the buckle of his breastplate, “I am General Gonzalo Marquez, and I come as an emissary of peace from their most Catholic majesties, Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain.”
“Your masters are unknown to me,” said Lady Aisha. Fatima looked up at her with alarm. Her eyes were steady and dark, unwavering. “I know a Ferdinand of Aragon and an Isabella of Castile, but not a Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain. There is no such country.”
Abu Abdullah’s face had gone rigid. Fatima had a fleeting, suicidal impulse to set down her tray and go to him, but rocked back on her heels instead, pressing the flesh of her bare feet into the flagstones.
“My beloved mother,” said Abu Abdullah in a chill voice. “It’s very late, and you’re overtired. No one would think less of you if you went to bed.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” said General Gonzalo with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “The lady is half correct. There was no such country. Once we were Castile and Aragon and León, and we fought each other instead of our enemies. But our kingdoms have put aside the sin of fratricide and united under the banner of faith, with the blessing of His Holiness the pope. So now, you see, there is such a country. It extends from the Pyrenees in the north to the Strait of Jebel Tareq in the south. You are standing in it.”
One of the sultan’s guards shifted on his feet, palming the leather grip of his pike. Abu Abdullah held up a hand in warning.
“I am standing in the Emirate of Granada,” said Lady Aisha in a voice that was almost pitying. “Seat of the Red Palace, greatest of the kingdoms of Al Andalus. You can’t frighten me by changing a few names on a map. For centuries you have harassed us, yet here we are—the last emirate of Muslim Iberia.”
General Gonzalo laughed. There was no amusement in the sound of it, only a well-tended anger.
“If you were not a woman, I might be surprised to hear such naive talk in a city surrounded on all sides and starving,” he said. “But since you are a woman, your loyalty to your son and your people does you credit. Nevertheless, you’re wrong. This war might have started on a battlefield, my lady, but it will end on a map.”
Fatima was close enough to Lady Aisha to feel a tremor go through her body, transmitted through the thin flesh of her shoulder where it brushed Fatima’s own. Her outrage was carried with it, and Fatima felt herself tense. This was what it amounted to, all their prodigious honor: even as great a woman as Lady Aisha was easily silenced, and she, Fatima, carrier of platters and bather of backs, was never welcome to speak at all.