Read The Moor's Account for Free Online Page A

donkey that had been given to her as a wedding gift—dark clouds followed them all the way to the coast, so that it seemed to them they were being chased from one end of the country to the other. It was an early fall that year. The weather was cooler than usual and frequent showers impeded their progress. They did not reach the mouth of the Umm er-Rbi’ River until late afternoon two days later. Across the water, the eleven minarets of Azemmur must have seemed to them like so many welcoming hosts. They must have been eager to get to my uncle’s house, where they could have a bowl of hot soup while they warmed themselves by the side of the brazier. They sat under a cluster of fig trees to wait for the barge. My mother began to feel uncomfortable, but she did not want to alarm my father because, by her calculations, she was not due for another two months.
    Ordinarily, the crossing of the river does not take much time at all, but on that particular day, after my father and the other travelers haggled about the price of their passage and loaded their belongings, it was almost dusk. Just as the barge was ready to depart, two Portuguese horsemen arrived, trailing a prisoner. The city of Azemmur had been under vassalage to Manuel the Fortunate for a few years already and none of the travelers, burdened by Portuguese taxes, could abide the sight of these two men of arms. Still less could they bear to see that the prisoner wasone of their own, a young woman whose veils had been removed and whose hands were bound by chains. Red, blistered strokes ran down her face and arms.
    The two soldiers were tall and their helmets and armor looked heavy, perhaps too heavy for the current trip. The barge itself was not very large—the wooden platform built between two feluccas and towed from either side of the river could fit only a dozen passengers—and it soon became clear that one animal had to be let out if the soldiers and their horses were to get on board. The head ferryman asked the soldiers to wait until he returned, but they refused.
    My father intervened; he was one of only two travelers with a donkey and, if anyone were to disembark, it might have to be him. Addressing the soldiers haltingly in their native language, he explained that he and my mother had been on the road since before dawn, that their luggage had already been loaded, and that it would not take long for the ferry to return. The soldiers replied that they were expected at their garrison and, in any case, they should have priority over civilians—vassals, at that.
    The sun had begun to set now and the call for the evening prayer resonated from the minarets across the river. A cold wind blew. My father pulled the hood of his jellaba over his head. He was a soft-spoken man who was known for his ability to negotiate—after all, that was what his occupation often demanded—but on that day he suddenly and inexplicably opted for confrontation. Why should you have right of way? he demanded. He put his left hand on one of the horses’ bridle as he spoke. His voice croaked, so unused was he to speaking to soldiers. And what has this poor girl done? Why do you have her in chains?
    How dare you question me? one of the soldiers replied. He drew his sword and, despite cries of Wait, wait, from his companion, he struck my father on the shoulder.
    All at once, my father fell to the ground, my mother ran off the barge screaming, and the soldier sheathed his sword. My mother dropped to her knees next to my father. Sidi Muhammad, she called. Sidi Muhammad, are your hurt?
    On my father’s gray jellaba, the neat hole made by the sword was blooming red. The travelers and ferrymen gathered around, giving advice, clucking their tongues, or elbowing each other for a better look.
    He needs to be taken across the river right away.
    Lift him up against that fig tree.
    Take off his turban, it looks too tight.
    Brother, give him some water to drink.
    What good