Chapter 1: Tiziane: Anti-Atlas Mountains of Morocco: June 1939 1 TIZIANE ANTI-ATLAS MOUNTAINS OF MOROCCO June 1939 Even though many things had changed, some things never changed. Hamou Badi walked along the alley, past the sacks of couscous and flour, dried mussels, almonds, chickpeas and lentils that the tradesmen weighed out in their big brass balances, past the hammam with its chimney streaming woodsmoke into the clear blue sky, past the knot of gossiping black-robed women, and all the way, the scents and smells of the village chased him and wrapped him in their familiarity. His younger cousin Moha trailed him, the milk churn bumping against his leg. They were on their way to fetch the milk from Taba Tôt at the farm. This was Hamou''s task most mornings, one he never relished, for Taba Tôt scared the living daylights out of him. Today was worse than usual because of Moha''s constant string of irritating questions. ''Why does everyone ride donkeys here? Don''t you have any cars?'' ''Why are there so many dogs running around? Doesn''t anyone own them?'' ''Can''t we just go to a shop for our milk like normal people?'' Hamou had given up answering with anything more than a grunt because no matter how many questions he answered there were always more. He turned on Moha now.

''Look, just shut up, all right? If you chatter on at Taba Tôt she''ll put the evil eye on you and probably on me as well.'' Moha laughed. ''The evil eye! You''ll be telling me she commands djinns next.'' Hamou reddened. Of course Taba Tôt communed with djinns, everyone knew that. The great house rose up before them like a cliff, arrow-slit windows in its walls of rosy pisé , an iron-studded door wide enough to give entrance to two horsemen riding abreast, crenellations around its roof: a miniature kasbah. The queue for the milk from the farm attached to the great house already reached back around the corner. Hamou let out an exasperated sigh.

If he hadn''t been saddled with his slow-legged cousin, a city boy raised in far-off Casablanca, he''d already have been on his way home, milk and all. Now he would have to endure not only the long queue and Taba Tôt''s rising temper, but also his mother''s impatience at having to wait for the milk. He did try, from the lofty heights of his eleven years, to feel charitably towards the younger boy - after all, it couldn''t be easy being eight years old with his mother so sick that he''d been sent off on a seven-hundred-kilometre bus ride all alone from Casablanca to Marrakech, from Marrakech to Agadir to Tiznit, then up through the mountains here to Tiziane, a world away from everything and everyone he knew - but there was something about Moha that drove deep any charitable instincts he might have had. It wasn''t just the incessant questions or his slowness that roused his fury but the younger boy''s refusal to defer to him in anything. He''d even had the gall to mock Hamou''s djellaba this morning. ''You''re going out in that raggedy thing?'' Hamou had looked down at his striped camel-wool robe, bewildered. It was what most people wore here. Certainly, it wasn''t new - it had been passed down from his older brothers as they grew out of it, and maybe to them by his father, and to his father by his grandfather - but that just meant it was of good quality, to last so long.

But now Moha had mentioned it he had started to notice details: moth holes; frayed cuffs; dirt along the hem; and always the distinct aroma of the original animal of which he had believed only he was aware. Moha wore a plain navy djellaba over his Casa street clothes, including a pair of smart lace-up shoes rather than the yellow leather babouches typically worn here. Hamou took satisfaction from the despoliation of these shoes - a day and a half of Tiziane dust had already taken a toll. They joined the back of the queue behind Anir Oulhaj and Iza Moussaoui. The girl turned to regard them with interest. ''Who''s this, Hamou?'' Hamou raised a shoulder dismissively. ''My little cousin Moha.'' Iza grinned at Moha.

''Isn''t he cute?'' ''Not really,'' said Hamou. ''Where are you from?'' Iza asked Moha. ''The valley? One of the mountain villages?'' Moha bridled. ''I''m not a yokel. I''m from Casa.'' Now it was Anir''s turn to be curious. ''Have you seen USM play?'' ''What''s USM?'' ''Union Sportive Casa - the football club,'' Hamou said in disbelief. ''Everyone knows that.

'' ''I don''t like football.'' ''You can''t be serious!'' The boys regarded Moha as if he was of another species. Football was everything! But Iza''s grin widened. ''What do you like, Moha?'' ''School,'' Moha declared after brief consideration. ''I like school.'' The queue shuffled forward as the boys digested this. School meant interminable hours of Qur''anic verses copied out on their wooden tablets, learning passages by rote, getting whacked by Sidi Belqassim''s stick for writing with your left hand. ''School? Who likes school? No one likes school.

'' ''I do. I''m going to run a company, like Papa.'' He used the French word rather than the local word '' baab ''. ''What are you going to do?'' ''Me?'' Anir had never given it a thought. Then he grinned. ''I''m going to be a public assassin, like Slimane Chafari.'' Moha stared at him. ''There''s no such thing.

'' ''Is so. Isn''t there, Hamou?'' Hamou nodded. Chafari was a figure of local legend, a rebel and freedom fighter. ''He gets paid for killing people,'' he told his cousin cheerfully. He paused. ''Perhaps I''ll save up and get him to kill you.'' Iza and Anir laughed loudly, but Moha frowned. ''Anyway,'' Anir said, ''who wants to run a company? Sitting on your arse in an office isn''t a job for a free man.

'' The very word for their people - the Amazigh - meant ''free men''. It was what defined them as a race, distinct from the Arabs, and of course from the French occupiers. It was the first principle they learned. Now it was Moha''s turn to laugh. ''Free? You Berbers are funny. Look around.'' A pair of uniformed men were coming down the street, kepis on their heads, rifles slung over the back of their khaki jackets, ammunition belts bulging. Hamou glanced towards the soldiers, then away.

''So?'' ''So, you''d better get used to not being "free men". That''s all in the past.'' Anir squared his shoulders. ''We will never give in to the French. The nationalists will see them off.'' Anir''s uncles had left the region to join up with Bennacer ou Saïd''s forces in the High Atlas, launching raids on the French in Marrakech. As for Moha, Hamou thought he had a nerve thinking he was any better than the Amazigh: his mother was Hamou''s father''s sister! When the soldiers approached, Hamou and Anir studied the ground. It didn''t do to attract attention.

Even though the policy was to govern with a light hand, some individuals liked to throw their weight around. '' Bonjour, messieurs! '' Moha piped up. ''Shut up, you idiot!'' Hamou hissed, but it was too late: the soldiers were coming over. ''What''s your name?'' You never gave them your name. Hamou quickly trod on his cousin''s smart shoe. ''Ow! Moha bin Salim, monsieur .'' The soldier ruffled his hair. ''What impeccable manners.

Setting an example to the rest of these ruffians, eh?'' He reached into his pocket and drew out a sweet, which he gave to Moha. ''You see?'' he said to Hamou and Anir. ''If you''re nice to us, we''ll be nice to you.'' The pair moved on. Hamou and Anir exchanged dark glances. Moha put down the milk churn, unwrapped his bonbon and sucked loudly on it for the whole time it took them to reach the gate. The smell of the farm assailed Hamou long before he came to it: cow dung and chicken shit, but also fresh bread and the hot stones in the clay oven in which it was baked, the pungent lanolin scent of the sheep, and the spicy soup kept simmering all day in the firepot to feed the workers. And closer still, the scent of Taba Tôt herself, a wave of musk and incense and orange blossom.

Wholesome enough, but underlain by the smell of blood: it was said that Taba Tôt carried out the practice of butchering the farm''s livestock. The complex aromas made Hamou''s innards turn over, remembering the pinches on his arms, the clips around the head, the painful pokes in the ribs Taba Tôt had given him over the years. She took a particular interest in him, one he didn''t understand. Even as he had grown taller and stronger, she seemed to get no less massy or terrifying, which must be further evidence of the magic she wielded. There she was now, in front of the big iron-bound door of the house''s strongroom - ladling milk out of the copper vat into the pail of Fatima bent Habiba, whose thin little arm shook as she tried to hold the bucket steady under its growing weight. When the housekeeper straightened from her task you could take in the full size of her - as big as a bull, encased in an embroidered black robe pinned with a jewelled fibula. Strands of amber beads, each as large as a baby''s fist, garlanded her neck and five massive iron keys lay upon her chest as a symbol of her power and authority. Taba Tôt was the stuff of shared nightmares for all the village children, who told tale after tale of her butcheries and also of her occasional disorientating kindnesses.

But Moha just gazed at her in wonder, without a trac.