The Caliph's Concubine of Cairo | جَارِيَةُ الخَلِيفَةِ في القَاهِرَة
"In the Fatimid palace, a concubine destined for the Caliph's bed finds her heart stolen by a palace poet, igniting a passion that threatens empires."
جَارِيَةُ الخَلِيفَةِ في القَاهِرَة
The Caliph's Concubine of Cairo
الفَصْلُ الأَوَّل: القَفَصُ الذَّهَبِيّ
Chapter One: The Golden Cage
كَانَتْ دُرَّةُ مِنْ أَجْمَلِ جَوَارِي القَصْرِ الفَاطِمِيِّ وَأَكْثَرِهِنَّ سَمْنَةً وَدَلَالًا. جِيءَ بِهَا مِنْ بِلَادِ الرُّومِ صَغِيرَةً، فَرُبِّيَتْ عَلَى الغِنَاءِ وَالرَّقْصِ وَفُنُونِ إِمْتَاعِ الرِّجَال. جَسَدُهَا أَبْيَضُ كَالثَّلْجِ، مُكْتَنِزٌ كَتَلَّةٍ مِنْ سُكَّر، وَشَعْرُهَا ذَهَبِيٌّ كَخُيُوطِ الشَّمْس.
Durra was the fairest and most plump and pampered of the Fatimid palace's concubines. She was brought from Byzantine lands as a child, raised in singing, dancing, and the arts of pleasing men. Her body was white as snow, plump as a mound of sugar, her hair golden as threads of sunlight.
لَكِنَّ الخَلِيفَةَ لَمْ يَطْلُبْهَا إِلَى فِرَاشِهِ بَعْدُ. كَانَتْ تَنْتَظِرُ فِي جَنَاحِ الحَرِيمِ، تَأْكُلُ الحَلْوَى وَتَسْمَنُ وَتَحْتَرِقُ رَغْبَةً. وَكَانَ هُنَاكَ شَاعِرٌ شَابٌّ يَدْخُلُ القَصْرَ كُلَّ يَوْمٍ لِيُنْشِدَ الجَوَارِيَ أَشْعَارَ الغَزَل.
But the Caliph had not yet summoned her to his bed. She waited in the harem quarters, eating sweets and growing fuller and burning with desire. There was a young poet who entered the palace daily to recite love poetry to the concubines.
اسْمُهُ تَمِيمُ بنُ عَلِيٍّ، أَسْمَرُ كَاللَّيْلِ المِصْرِيِّ، وَكَلِمَاتُهُ تَذُوبُ كَالشَّهْدِ فِي الآذَان.
His name was Tamim ibn Ali, dark as the Egyptian night, his words melting like nectar in the ears.
الفَصْلُ الثَّاني: كَلِمَاتٌ مِنْ نَار
Chapter Two: Words of Fire
"أُرِيدُ أَنْ تَكْتُبَ لِي قَصِيدَةً،" قَالَتْ دُرَّةُ لِتَمِيمٍ يَوْمًا مِنْ وَرَاءِ السِّتَار. "قَصِيدَةً عَنِّي وَحْدِي."
"I want you to write a poem for me," Durra said to Tamim one day from behind the curtain. "A poem about me alone."
"لَا أَسْتَطِيعُ أَنْ أَكْتُبَ عَمَّا لَا أَرَى،" أَجَابَ بِجُرْأَة.
"I cannot write of what I do not see," he answered boldly.
أَزَاحَتِ السِّتَار. وَقَفَتْ أَمَامَهُ بِثَوْبِهَا الشَّفَّافِ الَّذِي يَكْشِفُ جَسَدَهَا المُتَدَفِّقَ كَنَهْرِ النِّيل. وَرَأَى تَمِيمٌ مَا لَمْ يَرَ: نَهْدَيْنِ كَتَلَّيْنِ مِنْ كَرِيمَة، وَبَطْنًا كَوَادٍ خَصِيب، وَوَرِكَيْنِ كَقِمَّتَيْنِ مِنَ الرُّخَام.
She drew aside the curtain. She stood before him in her transparent gown that revealed her body flowing like the Nile. Tamim saw what he had never seen: breasts like two hills of cream, a belly like a fertile valley, hips like two marble peaks.
"الآنَ اكْتُبْ،" قَالَتْ.
"Now write," she said.
الفَصْلُ الثَّالِث: الشِّعْرُ وَالجَسَد
Chapter Three: Poetry and Flesh
كَتَبَ تَمِيمٌ قَصِيدَةً طَوِيلَةً، لَكِنَّهُ لَمْ يَكْتَفِ بِالكَلِمَات. أَمْسَكَ قَلَمَهُ الذَّهَبِيَّ وَكَتَبَ القَصِيدَةَ عَلَى جِلْدِهَا: بَيْتًا عَلَى عُنُقِهَا، بَيْتًا بَيْنَ نَهْدَيْهَا، بَيْتًا عَلَى بَطْنِهَا، وَالقَافِيَةُ تَنْتَهِي عِنْدَ مَا بَيْنَ فَخِذَيْهَا.
Tamim wrote a long poem, but words were not enough. He took his golden pen and wrote the poem on her skin: a verse on her neck, a verse between her breasts, a verse on her belly, and the rhyme ending at what lay between her thighs.
"هَذِهِ خِيَانَةٌ لِلْخَلِيفَة،" هَمَسَتْ وَهِيَ تَرْتَجِفُ تَحْتَ لَمَسَاتِ القَلَم.
"This is treason against the Caliph," she whispered, trembling under the pen's touch.
"الشِّعْرُ لَا يَعْرِفُ خَلِيفَة،" أَجَابَ، وَشَفَتَاهُ تَتْبَعَانِ الكَلِمَاتِ الَّتِي كَتَبَهَا.
"Poetry knows no Caliph," he answered, his lips following the words he had written.
الفَصْلُ الرَّابِع: قَصِيدَةُ الجَسَد
Chapter Four: The Poem of the Body
صَارَتْ لِقَاءَاتُهُمَا طَقْسًا يَوْمِيًّا. كَانَ يَدْخُلُ جَنَاحَ الحَرِيمِ مُتَنَكِّرًا فِي ثِيَابِ خَادِمَة، فَيَجِدُهَا مُنْتَظِرَةً عَلَى سَرِيرِهَا المُذَهَّب. وَكَانَ يَقْرَأُ لَهَا الشِّعْرَ بَيْنَمَا يَدَاهُ تَسْتَكْشِفَانِ كُنُوزَ جَسَدِهَا.
Their meetings became a daily ritual. He would enter the harem quarters disguised in a servant's clothes, finding her waiting on her gilded bed. He would read poetry to her while his hands explored her body's treasures.
"جَسَدُكِ دِيوَانٌ كَامِل،" قَالَ لَهَا لَيْلَةً وَهُوَ يَغُوصُ بَيْنَ ثَنَايَا لَحْمِهَا الدَّافِئ. "كُلُّ طَيَّةٍ فِيهِ قَصِيدَة، وَكُلُّ أَنَّةٍ مِنْكِ بَيْت."
"Your body is a complete anthology," he said one night, diving into the folds of her warm flesh. "Every fold in it is a poem, and every moan from you is a verse."
وَأَنَّتْ دُرَّةُ أَنَّاتٍ مَلَأَتْ أَرْكَانَ الغُرْفَة، بَيْنَمَا تَمِيمٌ يَكْتُبُ شِعْرَهُ بِجَسَدِهِ لَا بِقَلَمِه.
Durra moaned with sighs that filled the room's corners, while Tamim wrote his poetry with his body, not his pen.
الفَصْلُ الخَامِس: الهَرَب
Chapter Five: The Escape
اكْتَشَفَتْ كَبِيرَةُ الجَوَارِي أَمْرَهُمَا. لَكِنَّهَا كَانَتْ تُحِبُّ دُرَّةَ كَابْنَتِهَا، فَسَاعَدَتْهُمَا عَلَى الهَرَب. خَرَجَا مِنَ القَاهِرَةِ فِي قَافِلَةٍ مُتَّجِهَةٍ إِلَى بِلَادِ المَغْرِب، حَيْثُ لَا يَصِلُ سُلْطَانُ الفَاطِمِيِّين.
The chief concubine discovered their affair. But she loved Durra like a daughter, so she helped them escape. They left Cairo in a caravan headed to the Maghreb lands, beyond Fatimid authority.
"تَرَكْتِ قَصْرًا مِنْ ذَهَب،" قَالَ تَمِيمٌ وَهُمَا يَعْبُرَانِ الصَّحْرَاء.
"You left a palace of gold," said Tamim as they crossed the desert.
"وَجَدْتُ قَصْرًا مِنْ كَلِمَات،" أَجَابَتْ وَهِيَ تَتَكَوَّرُ فِي حِضْنِهِ. "وَهُوَ أَغْلَى."
"I found a palace of words," she answered, curling in his embrace. "And it is more precious."
الخَاتِمَة
Epilogue
عَاشَ تَمِيمٌ وَدُرَّةُ فِي فَاسَ، حَيْثُ صَارَ شَاعِرَ البَلَاطِ المَرِينِيّ. وَأَلَّفَ دِيوَانًا كَامِلًا عَنْ جَسَدِهَا، يُقَالُ إِنَّهُ أَجْمَلُ مَا قِيلَ فِي وَصْفِ المَرْأَة. وَمَنْ يَقْرَأُ قَصَائِدَهُ يَشُمُّ رَائِحَةَ جِلْدِهَا بَيْنَ الأَسْطُر.
Tamim and Durra lived in Fez, where he became the Marinid court poet. He composed an entire anthology about her body, said to be the most beautiful ever written describing a woman. Whoever reads his poems smells her skin between the lines.