Sultan's Wife by Jane Johnson Page A

How dare a jumped-up Guinea slave speak to him, apale-skinned Arab, so? Contempt and loathing go hand in hand: I suspect I know which way it would go if he had to choose between killing me or the wolf.
    Grudgingly he does as I ask, entering the cage with his stick at the ready, but the wolf does not even stir as he fastens the chain around its neck, and he has to drag it out like a sack of turnips, as if it has lost the use of its legs. Even so, the four wild asses of which the sultan is so fond take one look at it, bray shrilly and bolt for the far side of the enclosure, where they disturb the ostriches, which in turn set up a raucous noise. Still the wolf crouches, its nose all but touching the ground.
    â€˜This is no good. Is it the only one the hunters brought in?’
    â€˜It was the sultan himself who ran it down,’ the man says sullenly.
    â€˜It’ll have to be in better fettle than this for the ceremony. You know the sultan will have your head and mine if the beast is not to his satisfaction and he is made to look foolish.’
    The keeper looks pensive. Then he says, ‘Can’t you ask the witch for something that’ll do the trick?’
    I stare at him. Does the whole palace know my business? I do not credit his question with an answer, but walk quickly away.
    It is Zidana to whom I go now, availing myself of a basket of oranges on the way, knowing I require some sort of excuse for entering the harem without prior arrangement. The guards on the gate are not fooled: there are treefuls of oranges everywhere, even in the harem gardens, like mine still green. They search the basket suspiciously and I stand by, shuffling my feet, till they are done. I notice that Qarim’s eyes are red and swollen. Word has reached him of Bilal’s death, then – whispers racing through the labyrinth of passages. ‘I am sorry about your brother,’ I offer quietly.
    He nods. It is not done to talk about the demise of those who fall foul of Ismail. They simply cease to exist. ‘Let the man through, they’re only oranges,’ he instructs his fellow guards. Qarim puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Watch yourself, Nus-Nus,’ he says in that high, light voice that is so at odds with his stature. ‘No one is safe in this place.’
    As I approach the inner courts of Zidana’s palace, the mellow strains ofan
oud
reach me. The oud is a beautiful instrument, the forerunner of the European lute, and I love to play it when I can. It has a sighing, plangent quality, particularly apt for love songs and melancholic airs. I learned to play tolerably well: now hearing the oud strummed with such feeling, I feel my fingers itch to join in. Then a voice rises in harmony with the dark melody and I stop where I am, in the shadows of the vine-covered arcade, to listen.
    When I was a man, what a man I was
    I loved the ladies, and they loved me
    Oh, far and wide have I travelled the world
    Now I am a prisoner, woe for me
.
    A captive to your beauty, my dark maid
    Your bright black eyes have captured my heart
    But all I can do is watch you and sigh
    A man I am no more, and so we must part
.
    I peer out into the courtyard, to see Black John, Zidana’s favourite eunuch, hunched over the pretty oud like an ape over a stolen fruit, his huge fingers moving nimbly as he takes the ballad to a minor key. The song is French, I believe, and did not speak of dusky maidens or black eyes in its original. We all have to shift for ourselves in our changed circumstances, to adapt or die, and John has prospered by his skills. When he starts in on the next verse, which tells how the lover must stand aside and watch his beloved wed another, since he has not the wherewithal to marry her himself (a reference in the original to money rather than diminished bodily capability), I find, quite unaccountably given the blandness of the lyrics, that tears are stinging my eyes.
    The last time I heard the song I was in the