The Poison Throne, page 12
‘Everyone would like to see the Hafiz,’ he said. ‘He is a busy man, taking care of the spiritual health of Tumanbay.’
He turned and walked up the marble steps towards the palace. Then he felt her hand on his arm.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘I have no one else to turn to.’
Bello had heard stories of the Inquisitor sending spies to entrap people he took a dislike to, but this young woman didn’t act like a spy. She was pregnant and he could see she had been crying.
‘What is it concerning?’ he asked.
‘My father has been arrested—’
He cut her off with a wave. Of course, she was one of the desperate many who thought the Hafiz could solve that problem. God knows there were enough of them, more every day, poor souls. Bello had turned many such away. It wasn’t that he or the Hafiz weren’t sympathetic, but they were powerless to help.
‘He was arrested for the possession of books,’ she continued forcefully. ‘It is a mistake. He went in to answer some questions and—’
‘And you need to go to the courthouse and—’
‘I’ve been to the courthouse. I have obtained seals and signatures, spoken to court clerics—’
‘I’m afraid there is nothing the Hafiz can do for you. Justice must take its course.’
‘But isn’t the Hafiz the keeper of God’s justice?’ she asked and threw herself at his feet. ‘Please, sir,’ she begged, ‘my father is a good man. A slave trader with a good reputation. If I can see the Hafiz, perhaps he can intercede. I have no one else to turn to.’
‘Get up, child,’ Bello said, looking around to see if they were being watched. ‘Please, get up.’
But she remained on the ground with her hands on his feet.
‘Listen,’ he said, touching her head. She looked up hopefully, her eyes imploring him to show some pity. ‘Trust in God. He will guide you. Peace be upon you and your family.’
He turned and hurried away, back into the Hafiz’s palace and slammed the door. He paused for a moment, leaning against it to compose himself, to quieten his heart and allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
His peace was shattered by hammer blows against the door. The mad girl was shouting, screaming through the wood.
‘Why won’t you help? Why won’t anyone help?’
Bello closed his eyes and waited. At last she gave up and there was silence. As he made his way into the great empty basilica, he saw the Hafiz coming towards him in a state of undress.
‘Holiness,’ Bello said. ‘You should be resting. Why have you left your bed chamber?’
‘I heard a girl,’ the Hafiz said. ‘She was crying.’
‘Do not concern yourself,’ Bello said, guiding the Hafiz back towards the antechamber at the far side of the great dusty hall. ‘You mustn’t be troubled by all the unhappiness beyond these doors.’
‘But I have to help the ones who need me.’
‘Of course you do, of course you must.’ He sat the Hafiz down on the edge of his couch, poured some water into a bowl and added a hefty slug of arak.
‘Drink! This is a special batch, distilled by the monks.’
‘I had a dream,’ the Hafiz said, taking the cup from him.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Everything was burning. Even the people. They called out to me but I could not speak. I had no mouth.’
‘This is a sign,’ Bello said, busying himself patting down the dusty cot, plumping up the pillows, ‘that you are not rested, Holiness. I blame myself.’ And with that he gently helped the Hafiz to lie down.
‘What am I, Bello? What are we now that we have no function—’
‘But we do! You are still—’
‘Still what?’ the Hafiz asked, his bloodshot eyes vast and empty.
23
Manel
‘Cat got your tongue, Kara?’ the doctor called out, smiling mischievously. Manel had said almost nothing all evening and remained some distance from the doctor and her guide who sat beside the fire eating.
The woman had shown her kindness that day and Manel was now going to repay it with betrayal. She tried not to think about it, what she had to do that night. Khaled had told her she must remain detached at all times. The woman was the enemy, a collaborator. And yet . . .
She hadn’t realised the ‘doctor’ she had been sent to kill would be a woman, especially one so full of humour and grace. She had expected a brute, a monster.
‘Did you see the fires falling from the skies the other night?’ the doctor asked, sitting down on the sand beside her.
Manel nodded.
‘At the palace they thought it was a message from the heavens. Maybe it was, but the priests couldn’t agree if it was a sign of God’s approval or the harbinger of misfortune. What do you think?’
‘I don’t think about such things,’ Manel said quietly.
‘Hmm . . . Just imagine, rocks falling from the sky.’ She looked up. Nothing was moving up there tonight. ‘Perhaps, Kara, we will find some of them lying in the desert. I saw such a phenomenon only once before, when I was travelling in the land of—’
‘You must be tired, doctor,’ Manel said abruptly, getting to her feet. ‘You’ve had such a long journey.’
The doctor smiled at her curiously. Manel suddenly felt embarrassed. This wasn’t her, this wasn’t how she normally spoke to people. And the doctor could see right through her, she felt sure. She needed to stay detached and yet not attract suspicion.
‘You don’t need to call me doctor, Kara. I am a doctor of sorts, but that is only a part of what I am. Call me Alkin. For that is my name.’
‘Alkin,’ Manel repeated. ‘What does it mean?’
‘It means “of all kinds”, it means I follow many paths, it means . . . you are right,’ Alkin said, getting up. ‘I have this habit of talking at every opportunity. Ah, let us rest and with God’s help we will reach the Great Dam tomorrow.’
‘The Great Dam?’ Manel asked, and immediately wished she hadn’t.
‘Of Dar Salah. A wonder of engineering, it is said. Built in the era of the Sultan Sayf din Aybak.’ Akin tilted her head at Manel. ‘You are not from Heraz, are you?’
‘What makes you say that?’ Manel felt a wave of panic surge through her.
‘Your accent, the colour of your skin. And you’ve never heard of the Great Dam of Dar Salah.’
Manel froze.
‘Are you trying to escape, Kara? From the regime?’
She wanted to escape – from this woman’s smiling eyes.
‘It’s all right,’ Alkin continued, moving close. ‘I may be their guest, but I won’t betray you, whatever you have done. I promise.’
Manel glanced towards the fire, where the guide had laid out some pelts and was now slumped onto his side asleep, and then to the darkness beyond.
‘If you suspected I was not what I said I was,’ Manel said, ‘why did you let me accompany you?’
‘Why would I not?’ Alkin said. ‘You have a kind face that tells of your troubles. I feel I know you.’
‘You don’t know me, doctor.’
‘Ah, well, you are my daughter’s age. I would have liked her company on my travels. Perhaps that’s why.’
Her face was illuminated by the dying flames of the fire, and Manel detected sadness and regret. Despite herself, she asked, ‘Where is your daughter now?’
‘Another time,’ Alkin said, finally looking away. ‘It’s late. I will sleep in the tent. I trust you don’t mind staying here by the fire?’
Manel nodded and watched as Alkin disappeared into the darkness.
Manel hadn’t slept at all. She lay on a pelt watching and listening. The dying embers of the fire pulsated in time with the sleeping guide’s long drawn-out breaths. It was mesmerising in a way, a fragment of burning wood and a living person, two totally different and unconnected things, joined together by a rhythm, an unseen energy that came from . . . Where?
It was time.
Slowly she sat up. The guide did not stir. Clutching the blade she had kept concealed in her tunic, she rose and moved silently across the sand on her bare feet towards the doctor’s tent. She stood by the entrance for a moment, listening.
Nothing.
Lifting the flap, she entered. In the darkness she could just make out Alkin lying on her back, her chest rising and falling with each breath. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see Alkin’s face. She was beautiful, she thought, not in a conventional, trivial way, but something much deeper. Even in sleep she seemed to be a woman at peace with the world and with who she was.
Carefully Manel lifted the knife. A fast, clean swipe across the throat would do it. Then her task would be completed. She would have proved herself worthy of Tumanbay. Once it was done, it couldn’t be undone, she would be changed, a fighter for a worthy cause, the daughter of her father, Tumanbay’s greatest commander. The question was – and it was one pushing its way into her mind with greater urgency with each passing moment – could she do it?
‘And you have come to kill me now, Kara?’
There was no movement. At first Manel thought the voice was inside her head.
Alkin’s eyes opened, on her lips the same serene smile as if she was pleased to see Manel.
‘I’m sorry, Alkin,’ Manel whispered, feeling her whole body trembling.
‘Do it quickly then,’ Alkin said, keeping completely still.
‘Aren’t you scared?’ Manel asked.
‘Of death? Why should I be? It is just another journey.’
Manel stared at her, uncomprehending. She tried to draw in breath but couldn’t. She felt tears streaming down her cheeks.
‘What’s the matter?’ Alkin asked kindly.
Manel slowly lowered the knife and backed away, watching Alkin, who didn’t move. When she reached the entrance of the tent, she turned towards the darkness and ran, knocking over pots and provisions with a clatter.
She had not planned an escape, assuming there would be no need. She was not even wearing shoes. Her feet were bruised and cut by the stones as she ran. There were the remains of the old ruined monastery, low-lying crumbling walls, impossible to see in the darkness, and within moments, Manel found herself lying face down in the sand, her shins and thighs hurting like never before.
She scrabbled up and ran on. Now she was in open desert. She glanced back. The fire and the tent seemed some distance away, though in the darkness it was difficult to judge. Once she got far enough, she could slow down and take stock. She needed time to think.
She could hear her feet in the sand, a constant, reassuring rhythm. But wait . . . was that her feet, her running? She felt a blow to her left shoulder, as if something had fallen onto her from the sky. Her legs gave way and she fell heavily to the ground, pinned down and unable to move. It took several moments for her to realise that someone was on top of her.
‘Steady, steady . . .’ She recognised that voice. It was the guide. It was only when he grabbed her wrist and twisted it hard that she realised she was still holding the knife. He forced it out of her hand.
‘I’ve got her, doctor,’ he shouted out towards the encampment.
Manel could hear footsteps approaching, and then she saw Alkin appear from the darkness. As she got closer, it was clear she was no longer smiling.
‘Who sent you?’
‘No one. I—’
‘Why do they want to kill me?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I was just told to—’
‘By who?’
Manel struggled to break free.
‘Foolish girl. You are being led astray!’
‘I think I know who I can trust and I know who is a traitor to Tumanbay.’
‘Do you?’ Alkin gestured to the guide. He grabbed a fistful of Manel’s hair and jerked her onto her knees so the doctor could see her more clearly. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘My name is Manel, daughter of a general, sister of a brother slain, and enemy of all who support this regime!’
‘Well . . . much good that will do you now.’
‘Leave her to me, doctor,’ the guide said. ‘Go and rest.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Alkin asked.
‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll take her out into the desert and—’
‘No – there have been too many deaths in Tumanbay. Tie her up. Watch her. Till the morning.’
Feeling the guide’s grip on her hair loosen, Manel tore herself free and ran. But as she pushed past Alkin, the doctor grabbed her and they both fell to the ground.
‘Don’t struggle. Don’t struggle. There is nowhere for you to go. Barshat, help me! Barshat? Where are—?’
Manel felt a tingling sensation on the back of her head. It wasn’t painful. It wasn’t unpleasant. She tried to lift her hand to feel what it was but her arm wouldn’t respond. Her body went completely limp. The last thing she remembered was thinking how strange it was that she had only now heard the doctor address the guide by his name, and how firm and strong Alkin’s body felt clasped to hers, like a lover.
An intermittent buzzing. It was distracting her. She was in the garden at her father’s house. Daniel had just taken her hand; he was older than she remembered him to be and they were married. She didn’t know how she knew they were married but they were and she had been very happy until she woke in bed alone and found the sun already high in the sky. She called out to him, and to their children – they had three. When no one responded, she got up and wandered through the cool empty house. In the courtyard she could see Daniel crouched over something. As she came closer, he stood up, the sun behind him, and she noticed clothes scattered around him. She was confused. He smiled reassuringly and beckoned her forward holding out a hand.
But something was wrong. Manel felt her heart quickening and her chest tighten. She found it hard to breathe. She wanted to run, but her feet wouldn’t move. She felt a desperate need to turn her head to examine the three piles of clothes on the ground, but she couldn’t. She knew what they were: her murdered children.
And then Daniel took her hand. She wanted to ask him why he had done this, but couldn’t speak. A fly was buzzing about her face, and she wanted to swat it away, but couldn’t lift her arms. Daniel gently brushed his hand against her face, then started to speak, but no sound came from his mouth. She could see from his face he was telling her something of great importance.
The fly came back, this time into her ear. Her head jerked sideways, and she could see one of the children, on his back, peaceful as if in sleep. There was no blood – he had been strangled. She knew nothing could bring him back; nothing could bring back the hope and happiness she had experienced those times in Daniel’s arms; she and the world had changed forever in this moment.
The fly was still there, now in her eye, feasting on her tears. And again she felt a hand gently brush it away.
‘Manel?’ Daniel said. But it wasn’t his voice. It was a woman’s.
She became aware of a deep thudding pain in the back of her head.
‘She’s waking up,’ came the voice again.
Manel squinted into the sunlight. A head appeared and she could see the doctor’s large green eyes staring into hers. She struggled to get up, then realised her arms were bound behind her. She wanted nothing more than to return to the courtyard, to find out what had happened, to hear what Daniel was saying, but he was fast receding into the distance.
‘Why don’t you just kill me?’ she muttered after a while.
‘We are not going to kill you,’ Alkin replied.
Manel felt a wave of sadness pass through her. She was lost, like never before. She started to sob convulsively.
‘You have not let yourself cry in a long time, my child,’ came Alkin’s soothing voice.
‘I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it!’
‘It’s God’s will, child.’
‘I’m not a child. I have done terrible things. I don’t deserve to live.’
She felt Alkin’s arm around her, pulling her into a sitting position. The campsite had been packed away. The camels, laden with the doctor’s supplies, were standing nearby chewing on a dry thorny bush.
‘Listen to me, Manel. I’ve seen a lot of things in my life and trust me when I say this. Don’t bind yourself to anything – faith, loyalty, fraternity. Do not let any other people be responsible for who you become. Find your own voice and learn to speak with it. If they are not ready to hear you, speak in a voice they understand. We are different – as women, we have more within us. We have the capacity to carry more, to bear more – no man will ever understand that. Don’t let what’s inside you die. Live your life, Manel.’
‘I’m sorry. You have been nothing but kind to me and I . . . I’m sorry, Doctor.’
‘Barshat!’ Alkin called out. The rugged, unshaven face of the guide appeared and stared down at Manel. She could smell dried fish on his breath. ‘Untie her.’
‘I don’t think, Doctor,’ he said, hesitantly, ‘I would recommend—’
‘Do as I say!’
He disappeared from Manel’s vision and a few moments later she felt her arms being pulled back and heard the sound of rope being cut. She felt numb from her shoulders to her fingertips and as she brought her arms forward, Alkin took her hands in hers.
‘These are beautiful hands,’ she said.
‘There is nothing beautiful about me,’ Manel said, trying to pull them away. But Alkin held tight, running her thumb across the palms.
‘They may be burnt and bruised and cut, but underneath there are long, victorious lines that tell me you will rise and you will find your strength in this world.’
