Sultan's Wife Read Free

Glory and Long Life
. He’ll live longer than any of us, I think as I walk on. Certainly longer than any of those of us within reach of his temper. Or his sword.
    My next appointment is the one I am most looking forward to. The Coptic Bookseller visits Meknes seldom. He has made a special visit at this auspicious time with an addition Ismail has requested for his famed collection of holy books. Not that Ismail can read a word of these volumes himself (what need when he can pay scholars to do it for him? Besides, he has the whole of the Qur’an by heart, a skill which he likes to demonstrate frequently). But he loves his books and treats them with great veneration: he has a great deal more respect for his books than he does for human life.
    After the usual fulsome greetings and inquiries after his wife, children, mother, cousins, and goats, the Egyptian leaves me to fetch the order fromthe strongroom he rents when he is in town, and I idle away the time breathing in the scents of old leather and parchment, touching the well-loved covers, poring over the engraved verses. The bookseller is breathless and flushed and the hood of his
djellaba
is wet through when he comes bustling back. When he takes the book out of its linen wrap, I can see why he has not kept it amongst his usual stock, for its beauty steals my breath. Its bindings have been gilded in two tones of gold. Intricate patterns are tooled into a central panel contained within a bold double border. It reminds me of the carpets in the sultan’s own chambers, gorgeous things from far-off Herat and Tabriz.
    â€˜May I?’ I keep my face very still, but my hands are shaking as I reach for it.
    â€˜From Shiraz. Made in the time of the early Safavids. See the cutwork on the inner board? It is exquisitely done, but very fragile.’
    â€˜Is this silk or paper?’ I run my fingertips over the delicate openwork pattern cut into the inside of the cover, revealing jewel-like lozenges of turquoise beneath.
    The Coptic Bookseller smiles indulgently. ‘Silk, of course.’
    I open the volume at random and come upon the 113th Sura, the Al-Falaq. Tracing the swirling calligraphy with a finger, I read aloud: ‘I seek shelter with the Lord of the daybreak, from the evil of what He has created, and from the evil of darkness when it falls. And from the evil of witchcrafts when sorceresses blow on the knots, and from the evil of men when they envy me …’ It could describe my world. I look up. ‘It is an edition worthy of the beauty of the words it contains.’
    â€˜It is indeed a priceless treasure.’
    â€˜If I were to tell the sultan you say this book is without price, he is likely to shrug and say that nothing he can give will be sufficient and that therefore he will give you nothing.’ I pause. ‘But I am authorized to make you an offer.’ I name a very substantial sum. He cites one twice as large, and after some polite haggling we settle somewhere between the two.
    â€˜Come to the palace the morning after the inauguration,’ I tell him, ‘and the grand vizier will honour this agreement.’
    â€˜I will bring the book to the sultan tomorrow.’
    â€˜I must take the book with me now: Moulay Ismail is impatient to see it. Besides, tomorrow is the day of gathering: he will not see visitors.’
    â€˜In this weather? If one drop of rain touches it, it will be ruined. Let me bring it to the palace myself on the sabbath, suitably boxed for presentation.’
    â€˜I will lose my head if I do not return with the book, and ugly though my head is I have become oddly attached to it.’
    The man gives me a crooked smile, and I remember that despite the vaunted wife and children he is known to have a boy or two whom he pays well for their favours, a practice that may well be acceptable in Egypt but had best be hidden in Ismail’s Morocco. ‘Ugly it is not; I would not see it parted from the