and adults alike were grouped around storytellers and magicians while nearby, dancers practiced their graceful movements and monkey trainers and water sellers mixed freely with vendors hawking fruits, vegetables and meats.
Having lived most of her life in her own villagehigh in the Rif mountains, Zara had never seen such a colorful mixture of sights and sounds. Then the call to prayer by the
muezzin
in his minaret brought people to a halt as they fell to their knees, facing Mecca, the holy city and birthplace of Allah. The
muezzin’s
cry echoed over the city, his chant in praise of Allah and his works repeated over and over by the faithful. After prayers, the sultan’s party continued on to the palace.
Zara feasted her eyes upon the sultan’s exquisite gardens, stunned by their extravagant beauty. A profusion of every kind of flower grew in a precise pattern of vibrant colors. When they reached the palace door, Jamal lowered her to the ground and dismounted behind her. Moments later the door was opened by two palace guards dressed in striped pantaloons, short vests and capes. When Zara would have paused in the doorway to gawk at the ornate walls and ceilings held up by tall marble columns, Jamal urged her forward.
“Have you never been inside a palace before, Princess?”
“Not one like this,” Zara admitted. “Perhaps I might have lived in such a dwelling if the Arabs hadn’t stolen our cities.”
“Come along, I’m sure the sultan has been advised of my arrival and is waiting for my report.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To the harem. You can eat and refresh yourself while I speak in private with the sultan.”
Zara stopped in her tracks. “The harem? I have never been in a harem in my life and don’t intend to go there now.”
No sooner had Zara uttered those words than a plump Negro slave shuffled up to Jamal and bowed low. He wore robes of the finest silk and pointy shoes of soft leather. His face was round, smooth and unlined, and his expression was anything but servile.
“I am Assad, chief eunuch. I will take the slave to the harem and bring her forth when Moulay Ishmail summons her.”
Zara’s chin rose mutinously. “I won’t go!”
Assad gave her a look of stunned disbelief. Such behavior from a woman was unheard of. “The lady needs to be taught proper conduct, my lord,” Assad advised. “Have you impressed upon her the fact that the sultan will not allow such disrespect from a woman? He is not an easy man to deal with.”
Jamal grasped Zara’s arm, pulling her aside. “Assad is right. You must do as you’re told and keep a civil tongue in your mouth. Moulay Ishmail is so enraged at your father, ’tis unlikely he’ll show compassion to Youssef’s daughter.”
Zara swallowed her angry retort, realizing she would gain nothing by antagonizing the sultan’s household. “I thought I was
your
captive.”
Jamal gazed into her vivid green eyes and wished it were so. “Nay, you were never mine. I merely held you in the sultan’s name. After I make my report I will leave you in his care and return to my oasis home. I am not the master of your fate.”
“I will take my chances with the sultan,” Zara said haughtily. She nodded at Assad. “I’m ready. Take me where you will.”
Jamal watched her walk away, her head held high, her pointed little chin refusing to lower, and a shiver of dread passed through him. The stubborn little wench didn’t realize the danger she was in. As angry as Ishmail was with her father, Jamal wouldn’t give a fig for her future. If he could but gag her he might have a slim chance of saving her life, but the brazen Berber vixen would have her say no matter what. The sultan had no use for women with cutting tongues, and Jamal feared that the consequences would not be to Zara’s liking.
Zara found the harem beyond anything she’d ever seen: floors covered with thick woolen carpets, so colorful they hurt her eyes, walls hung with silks and
Having lived most of her life in her own villagehigh in the Rif mountains, Zara had never seen such a colorful mixture of sights and sounds. Then the call to prayer by the
muezzin
in his minaret brought people to a halt as they fell to their knees, facing Mecca, the holy city and birthplace of Allah. The
muezzin’s
cry echoed over the city, his chant in praise of Allah and his works repeated over and over by the faithful. After prayers, the sultan’s party continued on to the palace.
Zara feasted her eyes upon the sultan’s exquisite gardens, stunned by their extravagant beauty. A profusion of every kind of flower grew in a precise pattern of vibrant colors. When they reached the palace door, Jamal lowered her to the ground and dismounted behind her. Moments later the door was opened by two palace guards dressed in striped pantaloons, short vests and capes. When Zara would have paused in the doorway to gawk at the ornate walls and ceilings held up by tall marble columns, Jamal urged her forward.
“Have you never been inside a palace before, Princess?”
“Not one like this,” Zara admitted. “Perhaps I might have lived in such a dwelling if the Arabs hadn’t stolen our cities.”
“Come along, I’m sure the sultan has been advised of my arrival and is waiting for my report.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To the harem. You can eat and refresh yourself while I speak in private with the sultan.”
Zara stopped in her tracks. “The harem? I have never been in a harem in my life and don’t intend to go there now.”
No sooner had Zara uttered those words than a plump Negro slave shuffled up to Jamal and bowed low. He wore robes of the finest silk and pointy shoes of soft leather. His face was round, smooth and unlined, and his expression was anything but servile.
“I am Assad, chief eunuch. I will take the slave to the harem and bring her forth when Moulay Ishmail summons her.”
Zara’s chin rose mutinously. “I won’t go!”
Assad gave her a look of stunned disbelief. Such behavior from a woman was unheard of. “The lady needs to be taught proper conduct, my lord,” Assad advised. “Have you impressed upon her the fact that the sultan will not allow such disrespect from a woman? He is not an easy man to deal with.”
Jamal grasped Zara’s arm, pulling her aside. “Assad is right. You must do as you’re told and keep a civil tongue in your mouth. Moulay Ishmail is so enraged at your father, ’tis unlikely he’ll show compassion to Youssef’s daughter.”
Zara swallowed her angry retort, realizing she would gain nothing by antagonizing the sultan’s household. “I thought I was
your
captive.”
Jamal gazed into her vivid green eyes and wished it were so. “Nay, you were never mine. I merely held you in the sultan’s name. After I make my report I will leave you in his care and return to my oasis home. I am not the master of your fate.”
“I will take my chances with the sultan,” Zara said haughtily. She nodded at Assad. “I’m ready. Take me where you will.”
Jamal watched her walk away, her head held high, her pointed little chin refusing to lower, and a shiver of dread passed through him. The stubborn little wench didn’t realize the danger she was in. As angry as Ishmail was with her father, Jamal wouldn’t give a fig for her future. If he could but gag her he might have a slim chance of saving her life, but the brazen Berber vixen would have her say no matter what. The sultan had no use for women with cutting tongues, and Jamal feared that the consequences would not be to Zara’s liking.
Zara found the harem beyond anything she’d ever seen: floors covered with thick woolen carpets, so colorful they hurt her eyes, walls hung with silks and
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