“This is no way to begin,” said Abu Abdullah. His voice was thin and tired. “We’ll speak in private tomorrow. For now, please—rest and eat.” He gestured toward Fatima’s farcical arrangement of bread.
Fatima looked from the sultan to the general and back again. She could not tell why she felt the sudden urge to defend her master against this foreigner, why she should interpret the insult against him as an insult against herself, yet she did, and desired to punish the general for it. She set her platter on the bare ground. Straightening, she pulled the hem of Nessma’s gown up to her calf and pushed the platter toward the general with the ball of her foot.
There was a collective sound of disbelief, a half cry. Fatima thought she heard Nessma shriek, though it might have been someone else; she did not turn to look. The general went red from his neck to his scalp. Something quivered in the thick slab of his jaw.
“We came here under a flag of truce,” he said in a low voice. “We came prepared for your Moorish perversities, but not to be insulted like this—to eat from a tray some whore of a slave girl has touched with her filthy foot—”
“No—please, let’s not start a fight with the white flag hanging over our heads. It’s blasphemous. Here—” It was a woman’s voice, high and musical. It came from a dark blonde head that was moving between the shoulders of the men, who shifted aside to let it pass. A woman—a girl, perhaps, though she was dressed in a plain velvet gown of widow’s black and her hair was gathered at her neck beneath a matronly white coif—emerged from the throng of armored Castilians and hurried toward the platter of bread. As she bent to pick it up, she looked into Fatima’s face and smiled. Fatima stared at her, startled.
“I would have done the same in your place,” the woman whispered. Her face was long but delicate, her eyes strikingly pale against the rosiness of her skin and the brassy gold of her hair. She might have been twenty or twice that; the strange composite of her features made her age unguessable. Smiling again, she took the platter and presented it to General Gonzalo. Fatima was looking at his feet, trying to appear chastened, but she could feel him staring at her. He dipped a hunk of bread into the olive oil with an air of funerary calm.
“My lord and ladies,” he said in a voice that matched his demeanor, “this is la Baronesa Luz Maria Martines de Almazan, one of Queen Isabella’s closest advisers, who is here at her majesty’s personal request.”
“Just Luz,” said the woman, inclining her head. “I gave up my title when I entered the order of Santo Domingo. Catalina! Come here and hold this for the general, please. I’d like to greet our hosts properly.”
A pillowy maidservant extracted herself from the crowd and panted toward her mistress, accepting the platter of bread with a sigh. Luz crossed the courtyard in her wide black dress, its hem stiff and faded with dust, and sank in a curtsey at Lady Aisha’s feet.
“I’ve been waiting to meet you, senora,” she said. “And my own mistress is eager to meet you as well. She asked me to tell you so.”
“Please get up,” said Lady Aisha drily. “We heathens bow only to God.”
Luz rose, her expression unwounded. She grinned at Fatima.
“And who is she? So beautiful, and such a temper. Does she always frown like this?”
Fatima attempted to adopt an air of serenity.
“This is my bondswoman, Fatima,” said Lady Aisha. “Please forgive her in advance for the many offenses she is preparing to commit. I have never punished her for anything. There’s no point.”
“Fatima,” said Luz, as if the name were an incantation. Fatima met her eyes. They were pale, yes, but not blue or green; rather some indeterminate color, like wintery air.
“I thought you always named your slaves after flowers and precious stones,” said Luz. “Coral and Amber and Jasmine. I’ve never heard of a slave with a holy name.”
“I named her,” said Lady Aisha. “She needed something sturdy, as it was clear her mother would not last. I thought the name Fatima would make her pious and gentle, like the blessed daughter of the Prophet. I was incorrect.”
“She ought to have been a Hind,” mused Luz. “Or a Zeinab or a Khawla, or some other warrior woman.”
“You know our history,” said Lady Aisha. She sounded surprised.
“I do,” said Luz, inclining her head again. “But forgive us, Fatima—we’re talking about you as if you’re not here.”
“Everyone does,” said Fatima. This was true.
“Well.” Luz put her arm through Fatima’s. “We’ll stop anyway. It’s late—maybe we should leave the men to be offended elsewhere. Are we really going to sleep in the harem? Will Catalina and I be the first Catholics ever to see it?”
“Hardly,” said Lady Aisha in a blithe voice, turning away and clapping her hands to startle the other women to attention. “We’ve taken plenty of Catholic ladies hostage over the years. Perhaps you can talk some sense into the one we’ve got now. She’s pretty enough but as stupid as a sack of rabbits. Girls! Wake up. Let’s show our guest to her room.”
They began to move toward the colonnade. The maidservant, Catalina, shouldered a leather traveling trunk and two smaller sacks with impressive dexterity, huffing to herself as she trundled along under their weight. Fatima tried to catch her eye. She was in some way analogous to this doughy freewoman, if there were such analogies; perhaps, if Fatima were kind to her, she would confide the kinds of things that only servants know about their masters. But Catalina was staring fixedly at the ground, her gaze blank and indifferent, and seemed, as the sweat stood out on her brow, no freer than Fatima herself.
The moon, as Fatima shook out the bedding in the blue guest room, was peeping through the latticework over the window, reddening as it sank toward the harem walls. It would be dawn soon. Luz was sitting on a pillow, unpinning her coif. She looked as though she had been born to a life without chairs, though Fatima knew, or rather heard, that northerners sat at high tables to eat and work and dress. Their clothes reflected this uprightness and pinched them around the waist; Luz’s own gown was not made for sitting on the floor, and bunched up unflatteringly. She did not seem to notice or to mind.
“This is a lovely room,” she said, handing her coif and pins to Catalina and combing her bright hair with her fingers. “Such woodwork! Even the ceiling is painted. And these little brass lamps you use for light—so ingenious. Our candles stink—they’re tallow, mostly, and burning sheep fat is not the most pleasant smell.”
“You don’t seem to like your own lands very much,” observed Fatima, tucking a bedsheet around its stuffed cotton mattress. Luz laughed a little abruptly; Fatima had succeeded in annoying her.
“Do I give that impression? No, I love Castile. Mostly it’s not as mountainous as Andalusia, but it has its own charm. Fields that go green during the rains and then smell sweet when the sun is on them. The town I come from has a wonderful crumbly old castle in it.”
“Is that where you live?”
“Oh no. I live in a manor. Or I did—after my husband died, I gave it up and took vows with the Dominican sisters at Santa Maria Dolorosa. I live in an abbey now.”
Catalina was holding a bone fine-tooth comb. Fatima took it from her with a smirk and began to run it through Luz’s hair, starting at the ends as she did for Lady Aisha. Catalina pursed her lips.
“Are you a nun, then?” asked Fatima. “I thought all nuns wore habits.”
“I’m a lay sister,” said Luz. “That’s halfway to a nun, I suppose. I took vows of poverty, but not of seclusion—I can leave the abbey and work in the world.”
“As what?”
Luz only smiled. “What about you?” she asked. “Where are your people from? You’re no Berber.”
Fatima divided Luz’s heavy hair into three parts and began to plait them together.
“My mother was an Abzakh tribeswoman,” she said. “From the mountains that border the Black Sea.”
Luz looked blank.
“I’m Circassian,” said Fatima.