Sultana's Legacy (36 page)

“Why should I care how you feel?” Baraka sniffed and studied her hennaed nails.

Fatima smiled at her pretense at disdain. “Who would have thought in our old age we would become friends?”

Baraka threw her head back with a bark of a laugh. The skin on her throat did not sag as Fatima’s did, even though she was ten years older.

“Friends? I do not even like you. As for me, I shall never grow old. If you wish to think so of yourself, you may.”

Haniya returned with a basin of warm water. Fatima washed her face and dried it with a towel.

Baraka touched her hand, her look wistful. “I was Prince Faraj’s companion for many years, before he took you to his bed. After he did so, I saw the change in him. I never thought the master would desire another more than he wanted me.”

Fatima squeezed her fingers and Baraka continued.

“I tried hard to convince myself it was only the pleasure of someone new in his bed. As his devotion increased, I admitted the truth. He loved you, as a woman wants a man to love her. Such devotion can withstand all trials. One day, he shall forgive and you shall have his heart again.”

Fatima swallowed against the tightness in her throat and forced a smile.

Haniya interrupted them. “The master has come. He nears
al-Jabal Faro
.”

Baraka pinched Fatima’s cheeks so hard that she glowered at her. “Damn you! Why did you do that?”

“For color. When your maidservant spoke, you looked pale. Now, come. You have desired his return for weeks.”

She grabbed Fatima’s hands and pulled her along. They left her chamber and went to the indoor courtyard, where Ismail stood.

The smile with which Fatima would have normally greeted her son faded. He hovered at the side of the concubine Abeer. His long fingers stroked the smooth skin of her rounded shoulder. The woman inclined her head to Fatima, who nodded to her son only and continued walking with Baraka beside her.

“Why do you dislike her, my Sultana? She’s your son’s concubine now. Besides, you brought her into this house.”

 “To my ensuing regret. It is shameful that my husband should have given his concubine to Ismail. Faraj bedded her first and now, he has cast her off on our son.”

Baraka cackled. Her laugh echoed through elegant columns supporting horseshoe arches. “Don’t tell me you believe your husband took her to his bed?”

Fatima sputtered, “I was there on the night he summoned her! You told me she crowed about the pleasure my husband gave her for the entire harem to hear.”

Baraka shook her head. “Poor Sultana, you shall never understand the weapons a
jarya
must employ. Our lives are very different from those of a pampered princess. We must compete with our masters’ wives and each other to hold his attention. Faraj has bedded you countless times. Has his passion ever left you with enough strength to praise him afterward? Or, were you so awash in pleasure, you could hardly stand the next day?”

Fatima paused and thought about the question.

Baraka shook her head and patted Fatima’s arm. “Faraj never touched her. Abeer said those things only to make me, Samara and Hayfa jealous. Well, the other two. I’m too beautiful to be envious of the master’s lovers!”

She bowed before Fatima at the entryway. “Remember what you would say to him. Greet him with a pleasing smile and welcome him home. Show that you have an interest in what he would say.”

Fatima clutched her hand. “Stay with me!”

“No, though it gives me much joy to see him frown at my presence. You must face him. Have courage. You shall win his heart again.”

Fatima waited alone. Her fingers bunched the folds of her silken
jubba
, before she released the garment. The clip-clop of Faraj’s solitary mount struck the cobblestones. After a moment’s silence, he entered the house.

His weathered complexion, under a full graying beard, stirred her heart to pounding. She feared another rebuff, but steeled herself against a quick retreat.  

When he approached her, he averted his eyes and bowed. “I have returned, my Sultana.”

“I trust your journey was a pleasant one. You have been gone too long.”

“It was little less than a month.”

“How does the Sultan fare?”

Faraj didn’t even bother to hide his scowl. “Your brother enjoys his privileges, some more than others.”

Fatima sensed some deeper meaning beneath his statement, but he strode past her into the house before she could inquire.

She called out, “We dine at the usual hour….”

Her voice faded on the sea breeze. He disappeared through the archway.

***

Eight weeks later, Fatima stared into the darkness of her chamber. A mournful wind howled outside her window. She had enjoyed the freedom of her house for eight months. Yet, she missed the comfort of Faraj’s arms around her, his light snores lulling her to sleep and the warmth of his body. With every beat of her heart, every breath she took, she missed him.

With a shudder, she rolled on her side. Tears soaked her pillows as they had on most nights.

A door creaked on its hinges and distinctive footfalls scraped in the hall outside her door. He had just finished his bath. She held her breath, as she had done many nights in the past months. She hoped he would come. The footfalls continued past her chamber.

In the gloom, she listened to the water clock, as steady liquid drops marked the time. Raised voices drifted through her door. She pushed the coverlet aside and smoothed her tunic. When she stepped out into the hallway, Marzuq brandished a torch over the heads of Ismail and Faraj bent together, as they studied a parchment in silence.

She whispered, “What is happening?”

Marzuq nodded in her direction, but he did not reply.

In the glow of the light, Faraj’s visage hardened like a stone carving, severe and unyielding. He raised his head and glared at her.

“Nasr has broken his word. He has blinded Muhammad.”

Fatima clutched the doorpost. “Why? What did Muhammad do to provoke him? Nasr made a sacred promise before the whole court at his coronation. Muhammad must have done something.”

“Sultan Nasr fell ill last week,
Ummi
,” Ismail began. “He suffered a fit of apoplexy. There were those who attempted to regain the throne for Muhammad’s sake. He arrived from his exile at the city of Munakkab on the next morning. By then, Nasr had recovered. The conspirators failed. Nasr ordered them jailed and dispatched his Galicians with the command to hold Muhammad and prevent his retreat. When they found him, he denied knowledge of the conspiracy. He said he had only returned to Gharnatah out of concern for Nasr.”

“You can’t believe that, my son!”

Faraj growled at her. “It doesn’t matter! Later, by the Sultan’s decree, the Galicians blinded Muhammad.”

Fatima covered her mouth with her hand for a moment. “Muhammad’s eyesight has been poor for years anyway.” When Faraj’s face reddened, she rushed on, “Nasr had to do it. Muhammad gave him no choice. He came to Gharnatah to steal back the throne. Nasr only defended what is his.”

Faraj sneered. “And you defend him always! Not even you can protect him now. He did not have to maim Muhammad. He did it because he knew the rebels would not rally behind a broken man. Nasr made a sacred vow, Fatima, to safeguard and ensure the life of Muhammad. Such a promise cannot be broken for any reason. Otherwise, what power would oaths have in this world, where a man’s words and his willingness to uphold them comprise his honor?”

“You always supported my mad brother. You still do. What has Nasr ever done to you to earn your enmity?”

“He stole a throne that was never his to claim! He risked civil war. Now, he has broken his sacred oath. I warned you, Fatima, no Sultan would ever know security within his own realm after Nasr’s reign. Nasr shall learn that lesson firsthand. I shall teach him!”

“What do you intend to do, husband?”

“A Sultan who breaks sacred pledges for the safety and well-being of those within his power cannot be trusted. Such a man would be a tyrant over his people. Nasr has given me no other choice in this, Fatima. He lied to the
khassa
of Gharnatah, to his governors.”

Even as she shook her head in denial, he turned to Marzuq.

“Wake the citadel and the servants at the armory. We march on Gharnatah at dawn.”

Chapter 23

Allegiances

Prince Faraj

Malaka, Al-Andalus: Shawwal 709 AH (Malaga, Andalusia: March AD 1310)

Blackened chainmail snagged at the shoulder of Faraj’s
qamis
. The eunuch beside him adjusted the mail and prevented the links from ripping the cotton shirt. Faraj gestured for the quilted leather tunic. He slipped the garment over his head. A gasp came from his doorway.

Fatima stood there. He ignored her and took his sword belt from the eunuch. He girded it around his waist and tucked his
khanjar
into its sheath. The leather bonds encircling the dagger’s hilt chaffed his fingers.

While he slipped the mail mittens on his hands and finished dressing, Fatima remained just outside his room. She did not utter a word. Nor did she have to say anything. He prepared to make war on her brother, whom she had supported in his bid for power. Faraj did not have to guess at her feelings.

Still, when he turned to her again, the tears that streamed down her cheeks took him aback. After years of icy mistrust between them, the sight moved him as nothing else had.

His jaw tightened. He grasped his helmet and approached her.  

She stood aside and leaned against the doorpost. “I wish you would not go.”

“Of course, that is your wish.” He did not bypass her. “Your support of Nasr has brought us to this end. I warned you. Your actions against Muhammad have sealed Nasr’s fate. Neither he nor any other Sultan in the future shall be secure on the throne of Gharnatah.”

She swallowed a sob and raised her gaze to his. “That is not why I don’t want you to go. He is my brother and you’re my husband. If either of you should die, it would break my heart. Yet, it is you whom I shall pray for in this strife.”

His hand itched and tightened into a fist, but he kept his fingers balled at his side. He had vowed after the last time, he would never stain his own honor further by hitting her ever again.

“Do you think because Nasr is young and I am old that I cannot prevail against him? Years of warfare have taught me the skills I require for survival.”

“Promise me, if Nasr is amenable to peace, you shall not harm him.”

He grunted. “What do you think shall happen at Gharnatah, Fatima? Do you believe your brother shall submit easily? He shall meet my challenge and if I must kill him, I shall not hesitate.”

“I do not fear his death. I fear the loss of you.” Her lips quivered. Her gaze never wavered. “I forsook the bonds of our marriage once because of my loyalty to a Sultan. I shall never value another life more than yours. You have my allegiance.”

His heart ached, desperate to believe her. He had misplaced his trust in her before. “You cannot give it whole, when your heart is still torn between a brother and a husband. You cannot lose me, when you no longer call me your own.”

He moved past her, but not before Fatima clutched his hand and cradled it against her cheek, seemingly uncaring as the mail mitten dug into her soft flesh. “Return to us.”

Then she released her grip on his hand. His feet remained rooted to the floor. He stared at her, sinking into the depths her watery gaze held. The chainmail had left tiny indentations on her skin’s surface.

Her eyes glittered. She whispered, “Go with God, husband. May He protect and guide you.”

He left her then.

Their sons awaited him in the courtyard in the soft, pink glow of dawn. Muhammad wore his armor, but Ismail did not. Ismail offered Faraj his sword. Sunlight danced upon the fine edge of the Damascene steel. Ismail slipped the sword into its leather scabbard, wrought with gold.

Faraj clasped his eldest son by his shoulder. “Protect our family. If I should fall, hold Malaka in my stead.”

Ismail scowled. “If you fall, the governorship shall be the least of my concerns. The Sultan’s wrath would descend upon this place. Never fear, Father. I shall protect our family no matter the outcome.”

 With a curt nod to his heir, Faraj went to his horse and mounted. Muhammad rode beside him. Khalid awaited them at
al-Jabal Faro
.

He inclined his head. “We are ready to serve you, master.”

A detachment of the Marinid Volunteers of the Faith also sat on their mounts behind the soldiers of Malaka. Under the terms of the treaty Faraj had negotiated with the Marinids on Nasr’s behalf, the Berber and Gharnati expatriates returned to occupy several of the coastal cities and Gharnatah, under the supreme command of their
Shaykh al-Ghuzat
.

The garrison commander urged his horse forward. Light delineated his pale, angular features, hollow cheeks and hooked nose.

“I am Uthman ibn Abi’l-Ula. We have heard of the troubles in Gharnatah this past night. Your reputation is as a strong leader of men, Prince Faraj. We shall support you in your bid for power against the Sultan.”

Faraj scowled at him. “I seek to correct an injustice, not grab the throne. Whose voice do you speak with, your own or that of your master in al-Maghrib el-Aska?”

“Your move against Sultan Nasr is justified. He is too weak, the pawn of the Christians. I do not doubt that he is secretly a Christian himself. Surely, his mother taught him their ways. If my master were here, he would understand. Sultan Nasr is not fit to rule this land. You must take the throne of Gharnatah in his stead.”

“Whoever believes I seek the Sultanate must be a fool and a liar!” Faraj stared the man down. “If that is what you expect of me, prepare yourself for disappointment. After Nasr has publicly acknowledged his crime, the
Diwan
can decide how to sanction him. I do not intend to stay in Gharnatah.”