The Love Slave (46 page)

“Zaynab,” he said patiently to her, “you must understand. I know that you are intelligent enough to do so. Iniga was the daughter of Malina’s prince. She was a wife. A mother. Once she was carried off by Ali Hassan, her mantle of respectability was stripped away from her because of her carnal knowledge of another man, or men. You, however, are a concubine. It is your place to be seductive. It is your place to know men carnally. You have a cloak of respectability of a different sort, my dear.”

“And if it had been me who was carried off by Ali Hassan
and violated, would I not be as disreputable as you claim poor Iniga now has become?” she demanded.

“Of course not,” he responded to her. “You are a concubine.”

“
That
,” Zaynab said scathingly, “is absurd reasoning, my lord.”

“I have never known you to be this way,” he said to her, and indeed he was surprised by the depth of her feelings in this matter.

“I have had two close women friends in my life, Hasdai, and one of them is Iniga. I was not born a slave, but my slavery has been a benign captivity. I have been pampered and adored. Not so my poor friend. She was forced to watch as her family was slaughtered before her eyes, kidnapped, and most certainly violated. Until now Iniga was sheltered, and loved by all who knew her. She has a child. She does not deserve this, and I will do all I can to see she is rescued! I cannot stand idly by while you men debate the issue of her lost
virtue
. It is ridiculous! What has Iniga’s virtue to do with any of you? It is her life that is in danger!”

“I promise you, my dear,” he said, taking her hands in his, his amber eyes sympathetic, “that those who scout Ah Hassan’s territory for us will seek word of Iniga. For now it is all I can do, Zaynab. Come now, and kiss me. I am hungry again for your lips.”

Stretching out, she drew his head down to hers, but her mind was far away as she automatically elicited sighs of rapture from him with her kisses. She was somewhat appalled at herself to realize how perfunctory her actions had become. She wished it could be otherwise, but it was not. She might have felt guilty had she not known he did not love her. Instead she thought of Karim, who was in this very place as she lay in the arms of another man. Did he know she was here? Did he think of her?

He did. He wondered as he lay alone in his bed how she had come to be the property of Hasdai ibn Shaprut. The Nasi was young and handsome, and looked virile. Did he please Zaynab? Karim sighed. Was she happy? Why in the name of Allah
had she been brought back to him when he could not have her? Was his pain not great enough? Alaeddin had promised him that Oma would answer all their questions in the morning.

Karim couldn’t sleep, nor did he want to sleep. The caliph’s representative had forced him by his sharp words to face the fact that he was now responsible for Malina and its people. He could not, would not, disgrace his father and those others who had come before him. They had founded this city, and brought it to its current prosperity. He could not allow their efforts to be for naught because of the terrible tragedy that had taken place.

When the dawn came he was still awake. A servant came with a tray of food. Karim looked at it and wrinkled his nose. The servant, an old woman who had known him since he was a child, said sharply, “The physician said this is what I was to bring you, and this is what you must eat, my lord. You have not the strength of a baby right now, but you must grow strong again so you may seek out and destroy Ali Hassan!” She plunked the tray on the table before him. “Eat it all, my lord!” Then she shuffled off.

Karim gazed down at the bowl of hot millet cereal, and with a sigh began to spoon it into his mouth. When he had finished it, he peeled himself a hard-boiled egg and ate it, then nibbled upon the slice of sweet melon upon the plate. There was a small goblet of wine for him to drink, and a slice of bread with a slab of goat’s cheese, but he could not finish that. Still, he did feel better for the meal, he thought, as the slaves removed the tray.

Alaeddin came, bringing Oma with him, and the girl explained to Karim why Zaynab was now in the possession of Hasdai ibn Shaprut.

“Does she love him?” he asked Oma.

“Of course not, nor he her,” Oma replied. “She was fond of the caliph, I know, but she and the Nasi are but friends.”

“And she has a child?” Karim’s eyes were wistful.

“A daughter, Moraima,” Oma said. “The caliph loves the little one and is very good to her. My lady would not bring her with us for she feared that travel could prove a danger to the little princess.”

*    *    *

Afterward, when Oma was back with her mistress, she said, “He asked if you loved the Nasi, my lady. I think he still cares for you. When I spoke of your child, he was very sad.”

Zaynab held up her hand. “Do not tell me any more. I do not want to know, Oma. I have had no choice in the way I live my life. You know it. I have made peace with my fate. Do not tell me that which would make me unhappy and discontent, I beg you.”

She did not see him, although he watched her as she walked in his gardens in the company of either the Nasi or Oma. She was, Karim thought to himself, more beautiful than ever. He knew without a doubt that he had not stopped loving her, nor would he ever cease to love his Zaynab of the golden hair. Once he saw Hasdai ibn Shaprut stop and place a kiss upon her lips. Anger surged through him, but then she looked up, and he saw her face, smiling pleasantly at the Nasi but without any sign of passion. The anger drained from him. Oma had not lied to spare his feelings. Zaynab did not love her master!
But did she still love him?

Each day he grew better, and after a week he began to take part in the training the captain of the caliph’s Saqalibah was giving to his own men. Another week passed, and Karim realized that he was much stronger physically. He was gaining his weight back and sleeping soundly through the night. The men began riding outside of the city in a first show of strength. He was certain Ali Hassan’s spies would be watching. They now began to play a cat and mouse game with the vicious bandit.

Almost a month had passed when Hasdai told Zaynab, “We are going to camp out in the hills now to see if we can draw Ali Hassan out of hiding. He is constantly on the move, and our spies cannot always find him. The prince thinks it is better if we make him come to us.”

“Is there any word of Iniga?” Zaynab asked him.

“I’m afraid not,” the Nasi said. “She is probably dead by now, and it is better if she is, my dear.”

Zaynab clamped her jaws shut, silencing herself, but the retort had almost flown from her lips. Iniga could not be dead!
When they found her, she would make everything all right. Karim might not have the rest of his family, but he would have his sister back. He would be glad of it no matter what they were all saying.

The men went off into the hills, leaving Zaynab and Oma to themselves in the palace. Every few days a messenger would come with a missive from Hasdai ibn Shaprut for Zaynab, informing her of their progress, which for now had come to naught There was absolutely no sign of Ali Hassan, his encampment, or any of his men. Still, they meant to remain until the bandit came out of hiding, which they assumed he eventually would. When he did, they would be waiting for him.

One late summer’s afternoon as the two young women walked at the far end of the gardens, half a dozen men rose up suddenly from the bushes to surprise them. Oma, with surprising foresight, pushed past them, running as fast as she could for the portico, screaming at the top of her lungs for Mustafa and the household guards. Zaynab, however, was not as quick. Surrounded, she was swiftly gagged and hustled through the little garden gate Karim had always used. One of her captors hauled her up onto a horse, and they galloped off down the street, escaping through the city gates before Oma’s screams brought help.

Zaynab was no fool. She knew now, even if Karim and Hasdai did not, that their maneuvers in the hills had indeed attracted Ali Hassan’s attention. This was his response to them. She didn’t bother to struggle against her captor. She was already very uncomfortable as it was. If she fell from this moving beast, she could cause herself a most serious injury. She looked up into the rider’s face, but it was veiled. “Who are you?” she asked him in Arabic, hoping that her words would not be swallowed up by the wind.

“Ali Hassan,” he said shortly, but nothing more.

Zaynab almost had to admire the man’s bravado. It had been a daring move to invade the Prince of Malina’s garden and steal away the Love Slave of the caliph’s representative. Now, however, she would learn if Iniga was alive. And the caliph’s
Saqalibah would certainly be able to find Ali Hassan’s encampment soon. She could see people in the fields along the very road they were traveling, gaping as they galloped by. Someone would report back to the authorities. She thought, perhaps, that she should be afraid, but she was not.

After several very discomforting hours during which Zaynab made certain to mark within her mind’s eye the outstanding features of the changing landscape, they arrived at an encampment deep in the highest of the foothills of the mountains. The black tents were carefully set into the rocks, where they would be difficult to spot. Ali Hassan drew his horse to a stop beneath the awning of the largest tent. He dumped his captive most unceremoniously from her precarious perch atop his stallion.

To the relief of her dignity, she managed to land on her feet, although the jolt that slammed up her stiff legs almost buckled her knees. Zaynab forced herself to stand straight. Calmly, she smoothed down her windblown hair and shook the dust from the skirts of her lilac-colored caftan.

“Get into the tent!” he snarled, and leaping down from the horse, half dragged her inside.

She shook him off. “You are bruising me, Ali Hassan,” she snapped back at him. “If you are to obtain a goodly ransom for me, I should not be mishandled. It will displease the Nasi greatly.”

“
Ransom you?
” He roared with laughter as he removed the veil that had obscured his features. His black eyes mocked her. “I have no need of a ransom. You are Zaynab, the Love Slave, are you not?”

She nodded slowly. “I am.” Her eyes went to the scar that ran from the corner of his right eye, across the right side of his mouth and down his chin. It was an old wound, but an ugly one. Despite it and a thin cruel mouth, however, he was an attractive man with strong features.

He saw her interest, and smiled. “Your beauty is renowned, lady. It pleases me to know that the talented sheath you possess, a sheath that has entertained the cock of the Prince of
Malina, Hasdai ibn Shaprut, and the Caliph of al-Andalus himself, will soon welcome my lance into its sweet precincts.”

An icy chill of fear bubbled up in her, but Zaynab knew that to show any kind of fear before this man would only court disaster. “You may force me, of course,” she told him calmly, “but you will know nothing of my talents if you do, Ali Hassan. I am not some common concubine to be terrorized into yielding to a man. Do you think that at your mere command I will spread myself for you?” She laughed at him, to his great surprise, then continued. “You have stolen me from the second most powerful man in all of al-Andalus. Do you not think he will hunt you down and destroy you? I was a gift to the Nasi from the caliph, whose child I bore.”

“They did not come after the girl, Iniga,” Ali Hassan replied.

Zaynab looked scornfully at him. He was not particularly intelligent, she decided. “When you kidnapped Iniga, you defiled her by that act itself. It would not have mattered if you raped her or not, although I suspect you did. She was the daughter of a prince; a wife, a mother. You took her virtue from her when you stole her away. I am a Love Slave, Ali Hassan. You cannot compromise my virtue in the same manner as you did Iniga’s. By the way, is she still alive, or have your
gentle
attentions killed her?”

“She lives,” he said shortly, nonplused by her lack of fear. He had never known a woman who didn’t fear him, except perhaps Hatiba. She had loved him, so he had thought.

“I would see her before we discuss the terms by which you will return us to Alcazaba Malina,” Zaynab said boldly. “I will even give you a single night of pleasure, such as you have never known, in exchange for your cooperation, Ali Hassan.”

Ali Hassan laughed heartily, deciding now that she amused him. “By Allah, woman,” he said to her, “you are as brave as a lion! If you truly please me, I will make you my wife. What sons I could get on a firebrand like you!”

“Do you honestly think I mean to end my days in a tent in the mountains?” she fenced with him. “I possess my own palace in Cordoba.”

“Do not worry, my beauty,” he told her. “I mean to eventually take Alcazaba Malina itself when I have destroyed Karim ibn Habib. He once took what was mine. Now I have destroyed or captured almost everything that was once his. And you will not have to live in that tiny dwelling they call a palace. I will build you a real palace of fine white marble with soaring towers, and hanging gardens to rival those of Madinat al-Zahra.”

“How easily you brag,” she said sarcastically, “but remember that I have both seen and lived in Madinat al-Zahra, Ali Hassan. They have been building it for years, and it is not yet finished. Do you perhaps possess a genie in a bottle who will help you build this palace of yours?”

“If you give me the pleasure they say a Love Slave can give a man, Zaynab, I shall give you anything you desire. I swear it by the beard of the prophet himself!” Ali Hassan declared vehemently.

“Take me to Iniga,” she responded dryly.

“Very well,” he said with an unpleasant little chuckle. He led her across the encampment to another, smaller tent.

Inside she saw that the shelter was divided by means of a dingy transparent curtain. As her eyes became accustomed to the murky gloom of the tent, she saw a figure on the other side of the hanging. It was a woman, and she was naked.

Ali Hassan put a restraining arm about Zaynab’s waist and clapped his hand lightly over her mouth. “Be silent,” he said low, “and watch,” and he drew her back into the shadows where they might see but not be seen.