Princess of Dhagabad, The (13 page)

He likes going to the harem casually, without
anything particular in mind, to sit around with his women and
children, watching them go about their usual activities. He listens
to the older slave women tell stories while the concubines are
engaged in their handicrafts, watching the children play around,
splashing in the fountains and running about the gardens of the
seven harem courtyards. He sits there, waiting for the bubbles of
excitement to rise in him in response to anything at all – a
seductive movement, a slender curve of the body, a smile, the sound
of a voice. He never knows on whose cushion he will end up. He
likes to be spontaneous and care-free, just the opposite of what he
has to be on the other side of the door, in the palace, in that
other world that is so demanding, so cruel, so quick to judge.

Today, as he enters the first and the largest
courtyard, Chamar stops to admire a peaceful sight. Ten of his
women are sitting on the grass with their needlework, watching a
flock of little girls running in circles around the marble fountain
shaped like a giant lotus flower, water flowing down its numerous
petals into a basin of carved lotus leaves. Every once in a while
the girls end up in the water and the yard fills with their happy
screams.

Noticing him, the women rise to their feet.
One of them, a tall girl with long flowing hair, tries to round up
the children, but it is impossible—like trying to catch a flock of
playful birds. She glances at the sultan and he gestures for her to
stop.

“Greetings, master,” the eldest concubine
begins.

“How fare you, my beauties?” Chamar asks,
settling down among them and motioning for them to sit down.

“Sad, without the sunlight of your presence,
master,” she continues, smiling at Chamar.

“I am sorry I was away so long, Ana’id,”
Chamar says, regarding her through half-closed eyelids. Ana’id has
seniority in the harem, approaching her thirtieth year, but she is
still as beautiful as ever, perhaps more so—with ten years and two
daughters to her credit and a mature beauty that Chamar finds very
appealing. The other concubines treat her as their older sister,
the one to whom they can bring their problems.

“I hope your majesty fares well,” Ana’id
says, bending her head to the side, a strand of her dark hair
falling over the thin oval of her face. Her eyes, in the soft light
of the setting sun, are the color of dark honey. Chamar has almost
no hope for a son with her, but she is still enormously attractive
to him.

“Affairs of state have kept me away,” he
says. “Is everything here well?”

“Zarema!” the girl who was trying to catch
the children suddenly says and stops, blushing, as the sultan turns
to look at her. This one, named Leila, is new. She was brought into
the harem a few weeks ago from Megina, and she is still shy of her
new master. Chamar likes her for being unusually tall and thin,
almost his height, with very white skin and straight black hair,
reaching almost down to her ankles. He feels a desire awaken in
him, but he doesn’t want to rush it.

“What
about
Zarema, my pretty Leila?”
he asks, making her blush even more.

“She wants to say that Zarema is about to
have a baby,” Ana’id explains. “Anytime now. The midwife is with
her.”

Another baby. Maybe, finally, a son? The
sultan’s heart beats faster. He had forgotten Zarema’s baby was due
so soon. He stopped seeing her months ago, when her belly became
too big for his taste. And now he is about to see another fruit of
his sport, his pleasure, his game. Chamar raises his face into the
reddish stream of the waning sunlight and makes a silent prayer to
the gods, the only ones who have the power to give him what he
wants.

Something heavy lands in his lap; and he
looks down to a girl of about five, her dark eyes shining with
mischief, fluffy hair tousled from running around. One of the women
hurries toward them and stops, seeing Chamar smile to the
child.

“What is your name, little one?” Chamar
asks.

“Chamarat Ida,” the girl proudly says,
stumbling through the syllables of the difficult word
“Chamarat”.

“Ida? What a beautiful name!” Chamar absently
pats the girl on the head and, lifting her, hands her to her
mother. He has so many daughters. Why not sons?
Why not just one
son?

“Will it be your pleasure to eat something,
master?” Ana’id says.

Looking up, Chamar suddenly feels the longing
for her mature calmness, for her comforting touch. She has been his
for ten years. She knows exactly what he likes.

“Why don’t you have dinner served in your
chamber, Ana’id?” Chamar says.

“With pleasure, master.” Ana’id rises from
her seat. “I will make the arrangements.”

Chamar watches her walk away, her back
straight, her hips gently rocking with her steps.

He looks at Leila, bent over her needlework,
a few paces away from him. Not much more than a child herself, she
looks tender and fragile, as warm patches of orange sunlight pour
through the palm leaves onto her face, the sharp angles of her
narrow shoulders, and down her long thin arms. On impulse Chamar
moves closer, reaching over and touching her milky skin, just above
the elbow.

She trembles slightly but doesn’t draw away
as Chamar runs his fingers up her bare arm, over her shoulder,
along her neck to stop at her cheek. He gently strokes her face,
drawing her closer and closer, feeling her hesitate without any
real reluctance to submit to his caresses. Extremely young and
bashful, she has remained a virgin much longer than the others and
even now Chamar is trying to hold off his passion, to take it
slowly, to be very patient with her. At the same time he feels that
today she is finally ready for him.

“Come with me,” he whispers, holding her at
half arm’s length, looking straight into her cherry-black eyes.

“My lord,” she whispers back, not struggling
and yet not coming any closer of her own will.

“Come. Don’t be afraid. We’ll just eat
together.” He gets up from the ground and pulls her with him,
drawing her after him in the direction where Ana’id had
disappeared. Gently, but firmly, Chamar takes Leila to the second
courtyard, the third door on the left.

Inside, the light is dim. The low table is
set with food and cushions are carefully placed around it. Cushions
for more than two. Ana’id knows all his tricks and fancies even
better than he does himself. The air in her chamber is warm and
lightly perfumed.

“Come in.” Ana’id beckons them, bowing to the
sultan. She has decorated herself, putting on a robe of green silk
and a heavy diadem of gold, with crystal droplets hanging down over
her forehead. She helps the sultan down to his pillow, the silk
flowing seductively over the curves of her body, and gently pats
Leila on the shoulder, placing her on Chamar’s left and sitting
down herself opposite him. At Chamar’s sign, the slave women
serving at the table leave, closing the curtain behind them.

A simple meal of
dalma
—stewed lamb in
marinated grape leaves—garlic chicken, and hot bread, seems
especially delicious to Chamar. He eats his food slowly, knowing
what is to follow and not wanting to rush it, to waste any moment
of his wonderful anticipation. He looks admiringly at Leila, who
blushes and looks down. From time to time he reaches out to touch
her arm or shoulder or cheek, and her shivers fill him with renewed
desire.

Ana’id pours three cups of sweet
garnet-colored wine and rises to serve it to Chamar and Leila. She
kneels on the floor between them and puts her arm around Leila’s
shoulders, holding a cup to the girl’s lips and urging her to
drink. Watching them, Chamar sips his own wine, feeling
light-headed, a pleasant warmth flowing through his body. He picks
up a handful of grapes, glistening in the light of a single lantern
like long oval pieces of amber, and eats them one by one, their
bursts of fresh sweetness in his mouth adding to the taste of wine,
rising up in bubbles straight to his head. Unfastening the belt of
his silk robe he lets it slide half off, baring his torso to the
warmth of the fragrant air, and to the closeness of the two women
that makes the muscles in his body tense up as if in preparation
for battle.

He watches Ana’id pour another cup for Leila,
the two of them now sitting close together on the floor. Their
faces begin to move slowly toward each other, their arms touching;
Ana’id looks deeply in the girl’s eyes and plants a light kiss on
her mouth, brushing her lips back and forth against Leila’s lips as
the girl’s breathing begins to quicken. Unable to contain his
mounting desire, Chamar leans forward, drawing Ana’id closer as he
presses her lips in a passionate kiss. He reaches beyond her toward
Leila and finds her hands respond to his touch with an awkward
caress that makes every hair on his body rise in excitement.

Wine is the nectar of desire. Leila’s eyes
sparkle as she puts down her empty cup, her usually pale face
aflame. As Chamar draws her toward him, he senses none of her usual
reluctance. She comes to him willingly, without hesitation,
submitting to his kisses and to Ana’id’s caresses. Chamar barely
remembers undressing them, the cool smoothness of the sheets, silk
robes sliding off to reveal the softness of skin to his eager
touch. He submerges into their caresses as if diving into warm
tingling water; two pairs of unhurried, supple hands gently stroke
his arms, his neck, and the insides of his thighs, as he feels
moist silky hair and hard breasts rise and sweep again and again
across his chest, his face, and burning fingertips.

Excitement fills him like a vessel sailing
the waves of an endless sea of arms, breasts, hair, kisses, each of
them telling a tale, guiding him, surer and surer, to his uncharted
goal. As the three of them merge into a single creature of passion,
he grows stronger and stronger, to the point of being
unbearable—and beyond, over the peak, into a deep ocean of
relaxation, of bliss, where the caresses are soothing, calming him
down after the moment—the eternity—of ultimate happiness. And
then, deeply satisfied, he sleeps.

Chamar wakes up, feeling the body against him
stir. Moonlight streaking in through the window falls on the floor
near the bed, on the table with the remains of yesterday’s meal, on
the pillows, scattered around the floor. In the dim glow of
reflected moonlight Chamar sees a slender naked body at his side,
long hair flowing loosely, covering him like a silky blanket. Leila
is sleeping beside him like a baby, all her fears of last night
gone, her head on his shoulder, her arm thrown boldly across his
chest.

Chamar smiles at the sleeping girl, slowly
awakening to the realization that Ana’id is not in the room with
them and that the light outside is coming not only from the moon,
but from blazing torches as well, their yellow patches wavering
against an even silver sheen. He also hears voices in the courtyard
and realizes that perhaps what actually awoke him was a noise from
the outside, a noise that also caused Leila to stir.

What could the fuss be about, at this hour
of the night?
Chamar wonders sleepily.
Where is Ana’id? What
is going on?

He carefully removes Leila’s arm from his
chest and places it on the curve of her thigh. The girl mumbles
something in her sleep and curls up, pulling her knees up to her
chest.

She must be cold
, Chamar thinks,
pulling up a sheet to cover her and noticing, his eyes adjusted to
the dim light, that the sheet is stained with blood.

She was a virgin last night
, he
remembers. And now she is carrying his seed inside. Maybe she will
be the chosen one, the mother of his son and heir?

He takes another sheet and covers the
sleeping girl, then puts on his robe and carefully finds his way to
the door.

Several women with torches are standing in
the courtyard, talking in lowered voices. As he moves toward them,
one of the women separates from the group and runs straight to him.
The sultan recognizes Ana’id, her hair in disorder, her nightdress
flowing loosely in the breeze.

“Your majesty!” she exclaims, her eyes
shining with excitement. “Zarema gave birth to a son!”

At first Chamar feels as if his heart had
suddenly fallen into an abyss and, instead of recovering its
regular beat, keeps falling down, leaving his chest hollow, and
himself breathless and weak. He raises his head, fighting against
that hollow place, focusing all his feelings in a silent prayer of
thanks. Thanks to the gods who heard his wish. Thanks to these
women who were by him through all his misery. Thanks to Zarema, the
new mother of his hope.

“Where is she?” he asks as soon as he gets
his breath back. “Where is my son? I want to go to them!”

“This way, your majesty,” Ana’id takes him by
the hand and leads him, almost senseless, to the fourth courtyard,
where the crowd is the biggest, all gathered around Zarema’s open
door.