The soft lilt of a tune woke Ara to the morning light stretching across her room. Su’ah hummed quietly as she arranged clothes on the shelf. Ara’s gold-embroidered, beet-red vest and saffron-yellow pants that tied at the ankles lay next to Layla’s gold-green caftan. A silver-inlaid tray filled with olives, cheese, bread and steaming mint tea sat on the table near the window. Ara could feel Layla curled next to her like a sleeping cat. Probably dreaming of dancing, she mused sleepily and, from the warmth of the bed, watched Su’ah shuffle around the room. Su’ah was old, she thought, observing her through morning eyes. She cared for my mother and Layla’s mother when they were babes, and now she does the same for us.
Both she and Layla had been born twelve winters ago. Ara’s mother had died from childbed fever soon after. Her father, it was said, had deeply mourned the passing of his learned Egyptian wife. Su’ah had been given the care of her and, later, that of her cousin when Layla’s mother, Maryam, had become sick with grief over the loss of her sister. Layla’s father, the sultan’s younger brother, had comforted his wife as best he could, and finally, Maryam had regained her health, strengthened by the love of her husband and her joy in her newborn child.
“You awake?” Su’ah slowly moved across the room. Her slave tattoo was faded in the wrinkled creases of her cheek. “After morning prayer, you two should head for the baths. The day awaits. It is said that the Sufi scholar may come this evening to speak. I hear that she is rested and working on some mathemagical problem or such.”
Ara pushed off the wool covers and jumped out of bed, stubbing her toe in the process. “How can two cousins be less alike?” Su’ah exclaimed. “A tidy, obedient girl who dances on air, and a reckless, too-curious child who cannot walk without bumping into walls.”
Ara sat down and held the throbbing toe. “Father says I learn quickly and have a scholar’s mind.”
“Ara is brave and smart and daring,” Layla said, stretching slowly in bed. “She knows three languages and is not afraid of anything.”
“She would do better to know one language and learn to watch her tongue.” Su’ah turned to Ara. “The sultan is far too lenient with you, child. You have almost the same training as a boy. You need to get your head out of the clouds and down to our own Allah-blessed earth. Suleiman is not the best person to be educating a gently bred girl, much less a strong-headed one.”
Ara knew these arguments well. She remembered when Su’ah had caught her learning to fight with a quarterstaff. And then, of course, there was the time she had climbed to the top of the Tower of the Children to better study the stars. At least she hadn’t fallen far.
Layla gave Su’ah a disarming smile. “We are fortunate to have both of you to watch over us. Allah is good.”
Su’ah sniffed. “It is fortunate, indeed, that I am with you, else you would run as wild as gypsy children. Here, Ara, let me comb your hair. I’ll not have it said that you are unkempt as well.”
Layla and Ara soaked in a large bath as, in the dim light, steam from the hot water rose to escape through star-shaped holes cut into the ceiling. Other women and children bathed nearby. Some sat on stone benches, drying themselves. One of the concubines’ toddlers was crying, indignant at having her face scrubbed. Hasan and two other boys had been splashing water back and forth but were stopped abruptly by a fierce look from an older servant. A slave poured water over Dananir’s hair, while another moved to gently knead perfumes and oils into her skin.
Layla stared at her fingers under the water. “Ara, would you help me search for my ring? I know I had it yesterday, but I can’t find it.”
“Your little gold ring with the amber stone?” She dipped her head under the water for a final rinse. “Your mother gave that to you for your eleventh birthday, didn’t she?”
“Yes, and her mother’s mother gave it to her when she was a girl. I took it off to dance and put it on my caftan, but it’s missing.”
“Perhaps it fell while you were dancing. We could look in the Court of the Lions. And while we’re there, I can look for more symmetries. Suleiman says that I must find examples of the symmetry called vertical reflection before he will teach me the next symmetry. I’ve already found one right here in the baths.”
“Oh, show me,” Layla exclaimed, looking at the many decorations covering the walls.
“See? There on the wall near where Dananir is sitting.” Ara pointed. “The gold leaf that repeats over and over in a line, see how each set of leaves are sort of reversed?”
Layla studied the design. “Yes, but how do you know it is a vertical reflection symmetry?”
“Suleiman told me the design had to be in a row, and that each pattern had to be exactly the same shape and size.” Ara ticked off reasons with her fingers. “And you need to pretend there is an imaginary line between them that they can flip over. If you could flip each tile, it should match exactly on top of the one next to it. Suleiman promised to teach me more as soon as I find all three examples.”
“But how do you figure out where the line is?”
“Suleiman said it is a vertical line.” Ara held up her hand with fingers tightly pressed against one another. “So, I look at a tile and pretend there’s a line that goes up and down—straight down into the earth and up into the sky to Allah. I try to see if the design on the tile can be split in half. If it can, I fold the two parts together in my mind to see if the designs match.”
They finished bathing and climbed out of the waist-deep water, then slipped on their sandals set at the edge of the pool. Hot water piped under the floor made the tiles too hot for bare feet. Ara was careful to put her sandals on. She had pretended she was a mystical firewalker once when she was six, only to blister her feet and get a good scolding.
“Well, I don’t think a woman should flaunt herself,” they heard Fatima remark primly from around a corner. “Tahirah needs to be under her brother’s control. A woman should be a thing of beauty, not have her nose forever in books. Why, only yesterday, I heard the wazir say a woman scholar was a disgrace to our people and a bad example to the children. Worse, she’s a Sufi, with no regard for our ways.”
Ara scooted closer, sticking her head around the corner and peering through the handle of a large urn overflowing with flowering pomegranate branches.
Rabab chimed in. “There’s nothing wrong with being a Sufi. They love Allah, as do all good Muslims. Only they follow their hearts, not the words of any person.” She looked around for agreement.
Maryam, Layla’s mother, spoke up, “A learned mind is praise to Allah. He, in his wisdom, admires education.”
Rabab leapt in again. “Our wazir is still angry because he was sent home in disgrace from the university. You’d think he would have gotten over that by now—it’s been close to two decades. The man is forever looking for someone to belittle. But for his counsel, Suleiman would have been named head translator. Look how he sulks because that Sufi woman is here. Tahirah is a famous scholar, and Abd al-Rahmid’s a bitter, jealous man.” Several women murmured in agreement.
Dananir spoke over them, “Suleiman is the palace tutor because the sultan needed one he could trust to teach his children. Anyone can translate a message.”
Never easily derailed from her subject, Rabab plunged on again. “And then there was the fuss over Maryam—don’t you remember, Fatima? The wazir petitioned the sultan for her in marriage.”
There was a gasp from Maryam, and Layla looked at Ara in surprise.
“You remember, dear?” Rabab added. “You practically begged the sultan not to betroth you to him. It was fortunate as you were wed instead to the sultan’s brother. Abn al-Humam has been a wonderful husband to you, has he not?” There was a stunned silence before Rabab continued, lowering her voice. “Besides, I heard the wazir dabbled in the dark mathemagics.”
Zoriah sent her a sharp glance. “We will not bring up past hurts, and we will not speak evil of anyone. Not Tahirah, who is an honored guest of the sultan, and not Abd al-Rahmid, who is the sultan’s appointed wazir and, as you know, a trusted advisor. The sultan does not take kindly to the slander of his people.
“Unless you have proof of wrongdoing, we will speak of this no more. As it is said,” Zoriah went on, “‘the Ways to God are as numerous as the breaths of humankind.’ In the harem, it matters not what the wazir thinks—this is our place. Allah, blessed be His name, and our sultan wish women to learn. And we shall obey their wishes,” Zoriah finished decisively, her position as the sultan’s head wife clear in her tone.
Ara and Layla sat stunned until the women left. “I didn’t know the wazir offered for my mother or that he was sent home disgraced,” Layla whispered.
“I didn’t either,” Ara whispered back, once more thinking of the dead frog. “What I want to know is, what are the dark mathemagics?”