Sultana's Legacy (14 page)
While six guardsmen surrounded them, the jailor removed the manacles encircling his wrists and ankles. Beneath, the metal had rubbed the flesh raw and red. He winced as crisp air touched the broken skin for the first time in many weeks. How long had he been mired in that place? After the third week, he had stopped counting the days while he awaited his execution.
Now the moment had come. At least, the jailor had released him from the brutal shackles. His clothing stank. Little, black insects crawled on his arms and through his hair. Yet, he vowed to meet God with conviction in his heart that he had done the right thing. If only it did not mean leaving Fatima behind.
He closed his heavy-lidded, stinging eyes. When the Sultan’s guard had taken him to
al-Quasaba
, at one point, he had imagined Fatima’s voice ringing through the complex. Yet how could that have been? She was safe at home, in Malaka with their dear children. One day, they would see each other in Paradise again. Perhaps then, she would greet him with tears of joy, rather than the heartbreak she had shown at their last moment together.
He whispered, “But, not too soon, my beloved. I shall wait for you, always.”
“What’s that you’re saying?” Khalid asked at his shoulder.
“Nothing.” Faraj opened his eyes and nodded to his captain. “At least, I shall have a companion in death.”
Khalid’s grim smile did not soften his features. “If that is our fate. I don’t see the executioner.”
“Are you so eager to die?”
“At each day, we are a moment closer to death. I do not fear it. I would have liked to have said farewell to Amoda and kissed her just once. I shall always regret that I never did.”
He fell silent and gazed in the direction of the gateway. Faraj followed his stare.
The Sultan shuffled as he shaded his eyes from the glare of sunlight. Fierce winds whipped through the alleys and along the ramparts of
al-Quasaba
. The Sultan’s robes billowed around his legs. His bodyguards protected him on three sides. His red-rimmed eyes revealed a lack of sleep.
Faraj scratched at an itch in his beard, before he frowned. The men who had followed him from Tarif marched behind the Sultan’s guards. Had they remained in Gharnatah all this time? He had thought the Sultan ordered their deaths beforehand.
At his back, Khalid said, “The Sultan must intend to execute all of us at the same time. We have lived at your side and we shall meet you in death, my prince.”
When the Sultan halted, everyone fell on their knees and their foreheads touched the ground. Faraj waited until his master’s footfalls resumed and then stopped beside him. He did not dare raise his head.
Without preamble, the Sultan said, “I release you and those of your house. Go from my sight, from my city and return to Malaka at once, where you shall remain until I summon you. Do not return to Gharnatah except at the command of your Sultan. Do it and you shall die. I swear it.
“Upon your return, you shall summon the household of your brother, Muhammad. They shall live with you at Malaka, where you must raise them as my father raised you. Your eldest daughter shall marry your brother’s son. The union shall seal the breach between you and your brother. You are as much to blame for his death, as his own avarice. Therefore, you should bear the burdens of his household. It is just that you should repay their loss.”
He turned on his heels, the hem of his silken
jubba
trailing behind him. Faraj raised his head and caught sight of him, before he rounded a corner and disappeared through the gate.
With Khalid’s help, Faraj stood and raked a hand over his face. His men surrounded him, tooth-filled grins and cheers breaking their formerly stoic facades.
Khalid slapped him on the back. “Another time, my prince.”
Faraj nodded. “Yes, another time. Let us return home.”
He shook his head in wonderment as his men escorted him through the gate. The horses they had ridden from Malaka awaited them.
A plump woman in white veils and a green mantle trimmed with ermine stood beside his mount, a black eunuch at her back. Her long, dark fingers patted the forelock of his stallion.
He gestured for his men to stop and closed the distance between him and the woman. He sank on his knees before her. “My Sultana.”
Shams ed-Duna asked, “You recognized me?”
“There is only one woman with your queenly bearing. Forgive me, for I am an affront to your tender eyes in my wretched state.”
She mused, “You are, but not for the reasons you would assume.”
She rounded him, her black eyes hard as obsidian between the slits of her veils. “I must ask if you love Fatima.”
His jaw tightened. “You do not need to ask.”
“It seems I must, for how else can I explain how you have tormented her these last two months?”
Had such time truly passed in which he sat in squalor, apart from his beloved and their children?
Shams ed-Duna continued. “You men and your stupid, selfish honor and pride! It means more to you than the love of your women, than the sake of your children. The Sultan and Fatima have told me of your foolishness. Did you think of her when you risked your life? Did you ever consider how your children might feel?”
He hung his head. Fatima had tormented him with the same queries, yet he did not heed them. He had risked everything for his principles. If given another chance, would he make the same choice, to stand and fight for his beliefs despite the consequences? Would love and duty sway his heart?
“My prince, you cannot know how they have suffered in your absence, how Fatima has endured this trial.”
“I shall never burden her so again. I make this vow to you and, upon my return home, to her. I shall hold her close to me and kiss the heads of our children.”
“Fatima is not at Malaka. She has been here since your arrival.” At his gasp, she added, “Did you truly believe she would have remained there, awaiting the news of your fate?”
“Is she the reason her father released me?”
Shams ed-Duna placed her hands on her hips. “My husband’s judgment remains sound. He can think for himself, without his children’s or anyone else’s aid! You live because he determined it would be better to keep you at Malaka. Do not mistake his kindness for sentiment. You deserve none!”
Faraj stood and swiped at his knees. Thick grime coated his fingers. “I would never dare think it.”
The Sultana sneered at the sight of him. “Then go from this place as my husband has commanded.”
“No, I should wait for Fatima. I cannot leave her behind.”
“Yet, you did at Malaka.”
“It is different now. Please, would you let me see her?”
“She would wish to leave with you, as well, but she cannot. Your family awaits you in al-Bajara. Your daughter Saliha has the pox.”
“All the more reason Fatima must come home with me!”
“She is too weak. I told you, she has suffered cruelly. She lost your babe.”
He staggered. “She was with child?”
“She was.”
“She never said anything, not before I left for Tarif, not even afterward when I saw her at Malaka. Was the child alive?”
“No, it was a stillbirth. The babe had fully formed, but he would never have lived outside the womb.”
Her words stabbed his heart. “He? It was a boy?”
“Afterward, Fatima confided in me that she had always wanted to give you another son. She has lived for thirty-eight years, now thirty of them as your wife. In nearly seventeen years since Prince Ismail’s birth, she has given you eight other children. Now, the midwife believes there should be no more babies.
“Surely, you must remember your concubines. Yet, you neglect them, according to your wife. Do you fear she shall think you do not hold her in your heart if you summon them? What other purpose do such women serve than to ease a husband’s lusts and lessen the possibility of numerous pregnancies? If you love Fatima, if you would see her survive, you must not father another child upon her. A woman’s body can bear only so much.”
“Why didn’t she tell me about the child at Malaka?”
The Sultana shook her head. “Perhaps she did not wish to burden you. If only you had been so kind to her.”
Shams ed-Duna gave him a curt nod in farewell and swept from the courtyard. Her eunuch followed.
In Shadows
Princess Fatima
Gharnatah, Al-Andalus: Safar 694 AH (Granada, Andalusia: January AD 1295)
Fatima sat at a cedar writing desk on a high stool, beside the window on the second story of her childhood home. The mid-afternoon sun glinted through the unfurled lattice. She looked into the courtyard of myrtles below, as movement caught her eye.
She grimaced at the sight of her brother Muhammad, his dark hair slick with a sheen of oil. He walked in the direction of the Sultan’s rooms, beside a man dressed in the attire of a Castillan knight. The stranger wore chainmail and heraldic symbols decorated the four squares of his yellow mantle. It was the red lion of Castilla-Leon.
“Who is that?” she asked over her shoulder.
From behind her, Niranjan peeked through the window. “Faisal warned me of him. He is Prince Juan of Castilla-Leon.”
“The same rebel prince at Tarif?”
“The man is here at your father’s invitation. The Sultan offers him shelter against the Castillan King.”
Haniya entered and announced Shams ed-Duna’s arrival. The scent of ambergris preceded Fatima’s stepmother, as it wafted through the curtains. Blue-black silk fluttered around Shams. Gold gleamed on her limbs and around her neck. There were even flecks of it in the gossamer veil covering her black braids.
“My husband has asked me to dine with him, as he entertains the wretched Castillan Prince Juan. Shall the Sultan approve of me?”
“Father would be foolish if he did not.”
“You are to join us. The Sultan commanded it.”
The quill shook in Fatima’s hand as she scribbled, nearly stabbing the parchment in a pique.
Shams loomed at her side, her shadow splayed across the letter. “You are writing to your husband again, begging him to understand your delay. He has urged your return for two weeks. You should go home, Fatima.”
She snapped. “Don’t you think I know that? My daughter needs me, but so does Father!”
The thin reed broke between her fingers. Niranjan went for another quill.
Shams came around the desk and took Fatima’s hands in her slim, dark ones. “Your father shall be well.”
“He is not himself! I am determined to find out why! I cannot leave Gharnatah until I know for certain.”
Fatima pulled her fingers out of her stepmother’s grasp and finished her letter.
Before she rose from the stool, she asked, “Is Nur al-Sabah joining us, too?”
“When she and I ate with the Sultan this morning, he invited her. She has declined.”
When Fatima shook her head, her stepmother’s voice fell to a whisper. “I’m sure she has no interest in the meeting with the Castillan Prince. Nur does not think about her past. She is content in her life here.”
“Shams, do not dissemble. We both know the reason why Nur al-Sabah refused the invitation. She knows I shall be there and she is still avoiding me. I cannot blame her for it.”
“That’s not true! Fatima, after some time has passed, you and Nur shall renew your friendship.”
Fatima made no reply, while she folded the letter and affixed the wax seal.
She had seen the
kadin
only once after their last encounter, at dinner with her father. Nur remained cordial throughout the evening, but nothing more. The formality of the
kadin
’s address and her avoidance of Fatima’s gaze still pained her to the depths of her heart.
Shams ed-Duna’s hand on her shoulder drew her from recriminations. “Let time pass. Nur shall forgive.”
Fatima wished she shared her stepmother’s optimism.
Within the hour, she suffered through the meal with her father, his wife, her brother and their Christian guest. Fatima missed the presence of Nur al-Sabah, but was also grateful that she did not have to endure the Castillan Prince Juan. He looked at Fatima in bold appraisal, each time she raised the fold of her veil slightly during dinner. She hated the indignity of his eyes upon her. Why had her father permitted this stranger into the sanctity of his harem?
After the meal, Muhammad handed the Sultan a water pipe. Fatima glared at her brother.
The Sultan excused his guest, escorted out by Muhammad. Fatima joined Shams at her prayer niche, while the Sultan performed his ablutions alone.
The evening cast long shadows by the time
Salat al-Maghrib
finished. Fatima had intended to return to her chamber and put this tiresome day behind her, but instead, she found herself at her father’s door again. At her curt nod, the guards permitted her entry.
She went up to the second floor and found him already abed, with his eyes closed. Next to his bed, he had set the water pipe. A haze of vapor escaped the green glass and saturated the room.
She glanced at her father again. He was sound asleep, rumbling snores betraying his deep slumber. She touched the warm hose on the water pipe. When had he begun to smoke? She felt as though she did not know him anymore.
Tears threatened, but she swiped them away. A pungent scent coated her fingertips. She recognized the smell as one she had thought came from the brazier in the Sultan’s rooms. She did not recognize it, but she knew someone else who might.
***
Niranjan drew heavy smoke from the water pipe and inhaled. With a cough, he nodded to her. “It’s hashish. Are you aware of it? Do you know what this plant does to people?”
She clapped a hand to her chest. “Who in the world has not heard of hashish and the
Hashishin
of Persia? The drug made them crazed killers. It controls people, makes them act unlike themselves….”
Her voice trailed off. “This is what my father…this is what makes him behave the way he does.”
