Wisdom, Women, and Wonder

A yellow parrot feather had been left on Khaya's bed when they returned. A summons from the Calipha.

The time had finally come.

Khaya's heart began thudding as Meia swiftly pulled out a luxurious maroon blouse and matching skirt to replace the simple clothes she was wearing. The embroidered fabric was carefully dusted with powdered garnet, gleaming even in the shadows.

A dozen thoughts raced through Khaya's mind as Meia tightened the drawstrings of her blouse, all of them to do with what she was going to do when she entered the Calipha's chambers. Zayan seemed to sense her trepidation.

"The Calipha is kind and soft-spoken, there is no need to be afraid."

His words quelled her worries only slightly. This was not just any woman – she was the most powerful, most respected woman in the kingdom. And Khaya was a mere peasant from an unknown, unmapped village.

The Calipha preferred barefaced simplicity for first meetings, or so Zayan told her, so Khaya departed without adornment; no jewelry or hairpins, no powder or rouge or kohl. Not even a veil.

As they walked through the halls of the harem Khaya drew herself into her thoughts, while Zayan observed her from the corner of his eye. Her skirt moved rhythmically as her hips swayed, trailing across the smooth marble floor. The blouse hugged the soft, feminine curves of her body previously hidden beneath loose qamises and flowing veils. The unfocused, pensive look in her eye was almost alluring, as was the slight downward curve of her lips. Zayan allowed himself a small smile of pride. The Calipha was bound to be impressed by such effortless, natural beauty.

The hallway began to widen as they made their way to the Calipha's chamber. Two towering oak doors stood barred with steel, flanked by two stoic guards. They wore matching deep green turbans and black tunics. Baldrics equipped with well-sharpened knives were strapped to their chests, and sheathed scimitars were strapped at their hips. They glared at Zayan, but made no move to reach for their weapons. A eunuch was not a threat to them. He presented the feather, and the guards made way without even acknowledging Khaya's presence. She kept her eyes forward, fear twisting her stomach into knots as the doors opened.

From now she was on her own.

A maid glanced at the bangle on her wrist and bowed deeply. Khaya removed her sandals before stepping on to the plush blue carpet. It was patterned with swirling designs in white and parrot green, a pleasant contrast to the reddish grey walls. The hall suddenly widened into a grand parlour with a splendid fountain at its centre. Red and orange lanterns fell from the ceiling in bright clusters, setting the room ablaze. A large alcove littered with cushions pressed into the side wall, shielded by strips of red gossamer. Low tables were filled with bowls of uneaten fruits and jugs of untouched drink.

The Calipha must have dismissed her ladies for Khaya's arrival.

The red bangle certainly has its privileges, she thought.

They passed the fountain and went through one of two archways that led to a spiralling staircase. At the top was the Calipha's solar – her private hall, forbidden to all but her family.

There was another guard at the top of the stairs, but it was a woman. Her veil was the same shade of green as the turbans, though her scimitar was slightly smaller. Her keen eyes darted to Khaya as she stepped on to the landing, but once again the red bangle stopped all questions. She stepped aside and the maid led Khaya through.

The solar was filled with light streaming in from a long open balcony on one side and a set of colourful lanterns on the other. A gentle breeze brought up the scent of wildflowers and sent the thin curtains dancing.

The Calipha of Arabia sat cross legged on a cushion, eyes drawn to the parchment in her hand. She looked up and smiled at Khaya.

"So, you must be Yahya's gift," she said. Khaya did not know how to reply, so she bowed.

Luxury and wealth were written into the Calipha's round cheeks and voluptuous breasts. Her lips resembled the Prince's, full and expressive. Shimmering gemstones dotted her cerulean qamis and small white flowers wrapped around the long braid that fell over her shoulder. Everything about her was modest yet stately.

"Please sit." She motioned to the cushion opposite her, and Khaya sat. The maid had suddenly disappeared.

"I am Calipha Arwi al-Mansur. What may I call you?"

"Al-Khayzuran, Sayyeda," she said, almost stammering.

Arwi seemed to notice her anxiety, and let out a soft laugh. "Please speak to me as you would a friend. I won't bite like the other girls do."

Khaya smiled despite herself. "I will try."

Arwi regarded Khaya with large kohl lined eyes.

"You are beautiful," she finally said.

"Thank you." Khaya bowed her head.

Arwi raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "This does not please you."

It was as if she had read Khaya's mind.

"I..." speak like a friend, "No. It does not."

What good was beauty? Beauty would not make her mother's ink any better. It would not draw water from the well any faster. It would not save her dying goat.

Beauty took her from her family.

"How intriguing..." Arwi's smile broadened as she poured herself a cup of tea. "Help yourself, Khayzuran."

Khaya took the tea, grateful for a distraction from her thoughts.

"So tell me, what do you think of Princess Rayta? You were in her company yesterday and this morning, weren't you?"

Khaya marvelled at how quickly information was passed around. She must have had informants hiding behind every corner to have known she had been with Rayta just an hour earlier.

"She is kind to me, but somehow..." strange, "different."

Arwi took another sip of tea. "Rayta is the spitting image of a perfect wife. Firm and diplomatic, a talented musician, witty, attentive, and fiercely beautiful. Yet for all her virtues Rehan hardly looks at her. Do you know why that is?" The Calipha chuckled, not waiting for Khaya to answer. "She thinks that to have power and respect she must become a man in all that she does. So she picks up a sword and challenges my son, she rides with the palace guard, she even goes hunting with the Caliph of all people." She rolled her eyes.

"This does not please you, Sayyeda," Khaya said, biting her lip to stop a smile.

Arwi burst out laughing, almost knocking the tea over. "Indeed, it does not."

The tenseness left Khaya's shoulders as Arwi continued. "Being assertive is all well and good, but Rayta does not know her place. The people who should respect her instead cower in fear and spout insults behind her back. She is out there being a man, leaving Rehan wifeless."

"You wish she was more like you?" Khaya asked.

Arwi shook her head. "I simply wish she cared more about Rehan than she did herself." She sighed and whipped her braid behind her back. "Now that you're here it won't matter. Whatever his tastes may be, you will please him."

Khaya had almost forgotten her place.

The Prince's whore.

"Though my son is the Prince of Arabia he is not difficult to understand. He loves a little puzzle. The less you reveal about yourself the more he will fight to know you." Arwi laughed. "Always speak your mind, as you have with me. He will enjoy it immensely." She paused to refill Khaya's cup. "Remember, you are not a servant. Do not cower, do not dote, but do not be so bold as to demand. He may suddenly lose his temper and hurt you."

Suddenly Khaya was back in the tent in the middle of the desert, the Prince sitting with his legs splayed, twirling a dagger. Ready to kill her.

If it wasn't for Yahya she would have already been dead.

"As for tomorrow night, I will not lie and say it will be painless, but if you make an effort to stimulate yourself beforehand it will be easier. I can have the girls provide some balms as well, or maybe some wine to help you relax."

Khaya's vision began to blur. "Yes," was all she could murmur.

Arwi leaned forward and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Don't be afraid, child. My son is not some street rat trying to take away your dignity by force."

Khaya nodded but still had nothing to say.

"Wait a moment." Arwi stood and went to the bookshelf at the far end of the room. She picked out one bound in a pink cloth cover and brought it to Khaya. "I want you to read this tonight. Tomorrow will be a busy day, so you must begin soon. Read every word," she instructed.

Khaya took the book and clutched it against her stomach. "Of course, Calipha," she said.

Arwi settled herself back on the cushion. "I hope the other harem girls aren't harassing you."

"No they aren't. I suppose they're too afraid of Princess Rayta to do anything to me," Khaya said.

Arwi did not seem surprised. "Some are as vicious as her, though they appear charming and innocent. Rayta has yet to learn that women fight differently than men.

"A woman's war is fought sitting in her chambers, in the gardens, at the mosques, at hammam. Where men use swords we use ink and parchment, where they have spies we have eunuchs, and if they have power we whisper in their ears to turn the tide in our favour." Arwi's eyes glittered as her monologue reached a crescendo. Khaya held her breath, utterly mesmerised by the Calipha's words.

She smiled and leaned forward. "Let me give you some free advice; never let people know what or how much you know. For a woman within these walls information is more valuable than any jewel, more powerful than any weapon. If you can remember this much, half the battle is already won."

Khaya held on to every word. She was glad this was the Prince's mother, caring and kind and generous to strangers.

Good mothers raised good sons.

"Now, how do you like the palace so far? I presume your chambers are comfortable?"

"The palace is beautiful," Khaya said, and meant it. There was too much to say to put into words. Every vaulted ceiling and stucco arch seemed surreal, all the marble and mosaics and gemstones and gossamer – it was as if all the beauty in the world had compressed itself and manifested here. Khaya was normally a silent admirer, absorbing and appreciating in the confines of her mind, but even she was forced to react to what she saw.

"Everything here is perfect," she said, "It is paradise."

Arwi smiled. "This is nowhere near as fine as that, but I am glad you think so." Suddenly she clapped her hands together. "Has Zayan taken you to the glass garden yet?"

Khaya shook her head, hiding her surprise at hearing Zayan's name. Does she know every single eunuch by name?

It made sense that she would – they were all loyal to her in the end, whether or not they served different mistresses on a day-to-day basis – but remembering over a hundred names and faces was not an easy feat.

Arwi tilted her head to the side and smiled, eyes glittering with nostalgia. "It is a lovely place. My husband built it for me as a gift."

Khaya beamed. "Was that your mahr?"  It would have been such an honour to receive something so grand as a wedding gift.

"Oh no, the mahr was completely separate. Chests of gold and something of that sort," she waved a dismissive hand and continued, "At that time the artisans had just learned how to dye glass and make those lanterns," she pointed up at the yellow and orange lamps. "I told the Caliph that I liked them, and within a month the glass garden appeared." Arwi covered her mouth and laughed. Khaya looked down to hide her smile.

Her admiration of the Calipha only grew the longer she spent in her company. Eventually servants came with the afternoon meal, two identical plates of rice, lamb stew, and a bowl of melons. It was far simpler than what she expected for a queen's meal, but she realised that whether or not Arwi was served a feast, she had the freedom to ask for one. That was all that mattered.

Without warning a eunuch rushed into the room, quickly checking himself when he saw the Calipha had company.

"Sayyeda, forgive me but it is urgent." He proffered a scroll to the Calipha and stepped back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as she scanned the document.

Arwi's sigh inflated her chest three times, stretching the seams of her qamis to bursting. "It seems nothing in this palace can handle itself without my interference." She handed the scroll back to the eunuch and took his hand to stand up. Suddenly she stood at her full height, about a hand-span taller than Khaya. Her posture was also shared by Rehan, comfortable yet poised. Perfectly at home wherever she stood.

"I'm afraid I must take my leave first. I hope I wasn't too much of a bore."

Khaya shot to her feet and bowed. "Not at all, Sayyeda. I enjoyed talking with you."

They walked together till they reached the doors to the Calipha's chambers. Before they parted Arwi looked over her shoulder and called out, "One more thing, Khayzuran!"

Khaya stopped and turned around.

"Don't call him Sayyidi, it just gets to his head."

This time Khaya did not stop her laughter.