Sultana's Legacy (44 page)

The walking stick tumbled from Faraj’s gnarled grip. “My heart? Are all my dreams come true at last? Or do I imagine the sound of your voice again?”

“Your ears do not deceive you, husband. You may trust them, as you trust me.”

Faraj opened his arms and at once, she was in his loving embrace again. She vowed never to leave it.

Chapter 28

The Last Farewell

Prince Faraj

Shalabuniya, Al-Andalus: Muharram 720 AH (Salobrena, Andalusia: February AD 1320)

Faraj sat with Fatima on a smooth limestone boulder in the early afternoon. She watched the myriad ships leaving Shalabuniya under a brilliant sky with wisps of clouds, while he listened to her descriptions. Not a busy port akin to Malaka, yet the familiar sounds of Shalabuniya’s sailors stirred his memories.

After almost seven years in this place, Faraj no longer thought of it as exile. Wherever Fatima remained at his side would be his home. Her familiar heat pressed against him, warming him against the coolness of a breeze from the White Sea.

He groped for her hand. Her fingers, which remained elegant in her later years, entwined smoothly with his. A gentle wind settled around their shoulders, enhancing the sensations around him. The aroma of the sea filtered through his nostrils. He stubbed and wriggled his toes in gritty, coarse sand beneath his feet. The serene wind briefly caressed his cheek, touching him with the same gentleness as the dear woman at his side.

Familiar footfalls crossed the sand behind them.

Fatima’s reassuring squeeze preceded her subtle turn and soft greeting. “The peace of God be with you, Samir.”

Their jailor answered, “And with you, my Sultana, my prince. I bring word from the Sultan of Gharnatah. A missive arrived just this hour.”

Faraj winced as Fatima’s nails dug into his hand. In his turn, he soothed her with a reassuring caress along the length of her fingers. “Our son is persistent, at least that has not changed in him.”

Fatima did not chuckle at his poor attempt at levity. Tension coursed through her, radiating through her near painful grip and the rigidity of her form.

She said, “I have no wish to hear anything Ismail would say. My husband and I refuse to listen to more of his lies. You may go, Samir.”

“Samir, you shall wait.” Faraj leaned toward her, catching the rippling exhalation of her pent-up fury.

Seven years was a long time, perhaps not so long as to earn forgiveness. Their son still sought it. In the months after Fatima had come to Shalabuniya and remained with Faraj, their heir had written nearly every month with his fervent hope that his parents would join him in Gharnatah. He promised he would rescind the order that kept Faraj a prisoner. Instead, Ismail would house them both in comfort and freedom at
al-Qal’at al-Hamra
. Fatima, the prevailing decision maker between them, always refused.

“Dear heart,” he began, though the waves of disapproval emanating from her made him pause for a moment. “My dearest heart, he is our son. Whatever he has done, he needs us. He needs you.”

Her hand wrenched from his grasp. “How can you say that?” Her voice seemed colder than death, made bitter by resentment and regrets. “How can you urge me to listen to yet another of his pleas for forgiveness? He shall never have my understanding or comfort, for what he’s done to you.”

She cupped his cheek in a familiar embrace. He leaned into the warmth her touch offered.

He sighed. “My beloved. As soft as silk against flesh when you yield, but as fixed and unmovable as marble when your mind is set against something. You know one day I must leave this world….”

“Faraj, do not say it!”

“My heart, heed me just this once. What shall you do, when I am dead? Can you return to Malaka, subject to the whims and wishes of our second son and his wife? He has been fairer in his dealings with us than Ismail. Yet he bends to his wife’s will. She rules his heart now. Would she welcome a rival for her husband’s love and devotion in his mother? Would you join your brother Nasr, in miserable exile in Wadi-Ash? He cannot support you. From what we have heard of the poor state of his daughters’ dowries, his excesses continue. He can hardly maintain his own household, much less the burden of your needs. I cannot bear to think of you living in such squalor at his side. Ismail is Sultan and you are the mother of the Sultan. Your place has always been in Gharnatah.”

“I shall never go there as long as he holds the throne!”

“He has held it for seven years. Please, consider your future.”

“I don’t want a future where you are not at my side.” Her lips pressed against his hand. “Dear husband, why must you ask me to do the one thing I cannot?”

“You have a great capacity to love. In time, your love for our son shall dull this pain. Then you shall go to Gharnatah.”

Faraj craned in the direction where Samir’s voice had sounded. “Are you still there, jailor?”

“I am here, my prince.”

“Then I bid you place my son’s letter with the others he has sent, in my chamber. She shall read it when she is ready.”

Samir’s footsteps crossed the sand and soon faded.

Faraj drew Fatima into his arms and marveled at the sweetness of her surrender. She clung to him, damp tears on his neck. Her fingers traced his features, with a languid sigh. He wondered how she could still take pleasure in his shriveled form.

“I am not the man you remember from our youthful days.”

“No, but you shall always be my love.”

Her lips pressed against his made him sigh. The second kiss with lips and breaths melded sharpened old desires. How perfect she remained. Truly, God had fashioned her for him. His finger slid beneath her mantle and smoothed over her waist and belly beneath the cloth.

She pressed against him and laughed into his mouth. “Faraj, the guardsmen from the citadel watch us. What must they be thinking of us, you caressing your wife so boldly?”

“I hope they are jealous to know that I still may have the pleasure of you. Take me back to our chamber.”

“Now? It is hardly midmorning.” Her husky tone belied her words.

He nuzzled her chin. “When did the daylight hours ever matter to us?”

She held both his hands and tugged him across the rough sands. Her murmurs and sighs guided him from the beachhead and up the rough-hewn, rock stairs. The wind billowed and carried the scent of jasmine in her hair.

“You remember, husband, just two more levels until we reach our room,” she breathed in his ear, her voice ragged.

He reached for her. She escaped him in a whisper of silk, with a teasing chuckle. “Woman….”

Her merriment echoed to the rafters. Her fingers laced with his and she guided him. “I promise I shall not tease you further.”

He tugged her close and held her immobile in his arms. “No, sweet wife. You may tease me as you wish, beloved.”

She led him up the first flight and released him. He followed the siren’s call of her scent and voice, as he held the bannister on the landing. Shafts of light warmed his face. Then she reached for him again. They mounted the second set of stairs together.

She drew him to their room. He gripped the railing and leaned against it, suddenly winded.

Fatima’s trilling laughter died. “Husband, are you well?”

He wiped moisture from his brow. “The last few steps have undone me.”

“Perhaps, you should lie down.”

He groped for her hand. “I fully intended to do just that with you beside me.”

“No, no, you look very pale. Come, you need to rest for a moment.”

She led him into the chamber. The wooden floor creaked beneath their feet. Then he sank into silken comfort, their bed one of a few luxuries afforded to them at Shalabuniya.

Fatima’s footfalls crossed the room again. “Asiya, I need you.”

“I’m here, my Sultana.”

“Please, a fresh pitcher of water for your master.”

Faraj chuckled. “I can’t drink a whole pitcher, Asiya. A cupful will be fine.”

A soft gasp escaped the servant girl.

When the mattress shifted and Fatima settled beside him, Faraj asked, “Do I look so old to such young eyes?”

Her hands returned to his face and smoothed his brow. “Asiya worries for you. We both do.”

“You should not. I am well. I have all I need here in this place with you.”

“Who would have ever thought we would know such contentment in these days?”

“Indeed. Who would have ever thought I could make you so happy?”

“What are you talking about? Did you ever doubt I could know joy as your wife?”

“I may be ten years older than you, but I think my memory is sharper. Don’t you remember our wedding day? You looked at me and frowned with such displeasure. I’d never thought myself so trivial.”

“How can you consider that now? I was a sullen child, unsure about marriage and you.”

“If I recall correctly, I did not always seek your good opinion of me.”

“You were arrogant and thought too well of yourself to care for my estimation of you. Yet, you must have known how I loved you in all those years afterward.”

He reached for her. “Remind me.”

She giggled. “No, husband. Rest until Asiya comes.”

The servant returned. At Fatima’s gentle insistence, Faraj drank two cups of water before he settled against the pillows.

Fatima said, “Thank you, Asiya. I’ll call you if I need you again.”

The wooden door creaked before it closed.

Fatima asked, “How do you fare now?”

“I’m a bit weary. What did you have Asiya put in that water?”

Her soft chortle echoed around the room. “Trust me, husband.”

“I do.”

He yawned against the fatigue that seeped through his limbs.

“Is Ismail’s last letter here, Fatima?”

“It is. Samir left it on the writing table in the corner.”

“Promise me, you shall read all of our son’s letters when the time is right. You’ll know the moment.”

“I promise, Faraj. Don’t concern yourself. You should try to sleep.”

The bed shifted slightly and her warmth receded. He groped for her hand. “Don’t go. Stay with me, until I sleep?”

The full length of her body settled beside him. Her arm encircled his chest and her chin rested in the crook of his shoulder.

She whispered, “Don’t you know, heart of my heart? I’ll never leave you again.”

He believed her. He knew only the peace and comfort her words offered, as he closed his eyes.

Princess Fatima

Fingers of light streaked through the room’s latticed windows. Fatima’s eyelids fluttered. Warmth shone down on her face. Dust motes floated like faint wisps of clouds on beams of brightness. She snuggled beside Faraj. “We’ve slept past at least one prayer hour. I am certain of it.”

With her head beside his, she became aware of the silence in the room. His barrel-chest did not rise and fall with breaths drawn in deep slumber. The rhythmic tattoo of his heart had faded beneath her touch. The grip of his hand on her shoulder had slackened and the gnarled fingers had fallen away from her.

She rose on her elbow and pressed her trembling hand against a vein in the neck that no longer throbbed with life.

“Faraj?”

No answer came nor would ever come again.

“Husband? Please wake, please.”

She quivered and pressed her lips to his cool cheek. “Oh, my love, my dearest love.”

The tears fell unrestrained.

Sometime later, shadows formed in the corners of the room. She stood and arranged her beloved’s limbs so that his hands clasped together. Her fingers threaded through the smoky gray on his head and smoothed the wisps of beard on his chin. A ghost of a smile lingered on his mouth, upturned at the corners. She gently positioned his head to face the
Qiblah
. She kissed his lips for the final time, their last farewell.

“Wait for me, my heart, please wait. I promise I shall not tarry long in this life. We shall be together again.”

She went to the window and unfurled the lattice. A pain-filled sigh racked her body and escaped her lips with a shudder.

Then a knock came at the door and Asiya’s soft voice echoed through the wood. “My Sultana. It is nearly evening. I have brought the meal and candles for later.”

“You may come, Asiya.”

The servant’s soft footfalls trundled across the floor. “Good evening. You missed a glorious sunset. Samir and I watched it together. The master still sleeps so soundly.” Asiya’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It is a wonder he can, with my chatter.”

She approached the western wall where Fatima stood and placed a candle on the windowsill. A furtive glance from her took in Fatima’s tear-stained cheek and she gasped. “Why are you crying?”

“The master, he is gone.”

As Asiya sobbed, Fatima patted her shoulder. “Tell Samir. I want my husband prepared for burial tonight.”

***

Before midnight, torches illuminated a small garden to the east of the citadel. Samir, Bazu and Amud, and the guards stationed at Shalabuniya interred Faraj’s body. Fatima watched from a window, her arm draped over Asiya’s shaking shoulders.

Custom dictated her absence beside the gravesite during the ceremony. It even forbade her from washing her husband’s body, for everyone who touched a corpse remained impure until ritual cleansing. Yet, she had lingered in the chamber while the
ghasil
whom Samir had summoned performed the preparations for Faraj. The man attended to his body with care, anointed it with rosemary and lavender oils. Lastly, the
ghasil
draped Faraj in white linen before Samir and his men took the body to its resting place.

In the weeks that followed, she spent most of her days in the garden beside Faraj’s grave. One evening, Samir interrupted her.

“The silk merchant has come to Shalabuniya.”

She looked up from the ground. “Asiya manages our purchases. Why bother me with it?”

“The Sitt al-Tujjar said she has a fine length of samite meant only for your purview, an exclusive item for her most prestigious clients. She trusts no one else to handle it, except the eunuch who carries the cloth.”