Sultana's Legacy (47 page)

She asked, “Can I help you with the sewing, Grandmother? When can we get started?”

Fatima replied, “If you wish it, we may begin in a month’s time, though the wedding is more than six months away. There is no need for haste, my lamb.
Tiraz
bands do not require the preparation your ceremonial robe shall entail.”

Leila’s eyes shone with pleasure. “I can’t wait to marry! I shall miss everyone, but I long to have a husband of my own.”

“Let me tell you a little of husbands, granddaughter. In His wisdom, God fashioned men and women to be a comfort for each other.” Fatima paused. All nine of her granddaughters stared in rapt attention, even the last two who were born in the harem, Safa’s three-year-old twins Tarub and Khalida. “But as my grandfather’s sister Faridah taught me: Men plan and women endure.”

Leila sat at Fatima’s feet. “What does that mean, Grandmother?”

“The men in our lives wield great power, which pains the women they love. We must be strong for those whom we love, especially our men.”

Leila blushed as she considered the explanation. Safa tugged at her lower lip with her teeth. Jamila’s ever-present smile faded.

Fatima took her eldest granddaughter’s hand in her own. “Before I married, my mother spoke words I have never forgotten. Words I wish you all to remember. Teach them to your own daughters someday.” Her steady gaze swept the room. She held her granddaughters entranced. “Your mind has great worth, more than beauty. Your husband may rule your body and heart, but your mind is and always must be yours, where none but you rule.”

She raised Leila’s fingers to her lips. “Live by these words, my dearest, and may you have a long and happy union.”

***

An hour before
Salat al-Zuhr
, the royal women readied for the
hammam
. Members of the harem had strictly scheduled times at which to attend their daily baths. The chief superintendent of the bathhouse observed the time.

He awaited Fatima and her son’s wives at the white marble entrance of the bath, beneath a wooden ceiling with upturned eaves. From the center of the room, the swirling lantern cast silvery light over the ceramic tiles and the marble fountain, which spilled water into a circular basin.

At the entrance, Fatima pressed a hand to her chest, as she always did when she attended the palace baths. She could not forget the sight of her brother Muhammad and his violence in this place.

Jamila cupped her elbow. “Are you unwell, my Sultana?”

Fatima smiled at her. “No, no. Memories, that is all.”

Jamila nodded. “The ugly ones fade with time.”

The bath superintendent greeted them. His usual pleasant expression faded until he stood reddened in the face.

“My Sultanas, I pray, forgive me.” He stammered and shook so badly, Fatima could not fathom what might have disturbed him. Then she looked past him, as did the other two Sultanas.

Beneath one of two tiled niches carved into the stucco wall, a black-haired beauty reclined. Bath attendants rubbed her hair with silken cloths. Moisture condensed on her alabaster flesh, rendering it an ethereal glow in the silver light. Her pale skin complemented black brows and lashes. She sighed languidly and arched her back for the masseur. Resilient muscle glowed beneath the flesh.

Safa muttered, “She does not dare intrude upon our pleasure!”

“Who is she?” Fatima asked.

“Our husband’s new whore. A captive taken at Martus a few weeks ago.”

Two years before, when the last treaty with the Christians ended, Ismail attacked strongholds along the Castillan border with Gharnatah. He concentrated on towns his forbearers had once claimed, including Martus.

Jamila frowned at Safa. “Your bitterness shall not bring our husband to your bed again. He has forsaken us for this girl, his Jumaana.”

A fitting name, for the
jarya
possessed the luminosity of silver pearls.

Jamila continued, “She has been troublesome since her arrival. The
Shaykh al-Ghuzat
Uthman claimed her first, as did another. Until our husband saw her and desired her, too.”

Fatima remembered Uthman well. After Ismail’s ascension, he had rewarded the treacherous snake with one of the highest posts in the land, command of the Marinid and Berber Volunteers of the Faith.

She asked, “Who was the other rival for the slave?”

Jamila sniffed. “The young prince of Al-Jazirah al-Khadra, the eldest son of the governor.”

Fatima cupped her mouth for a moment. “He is my grandson, the eldest child of my firstborn daughter. His father and Ismail were best friends when they were children. Do you mean my grandson quarreled with his uncle Ismail and the
Shaykh al-Ghuzat
Uthman over this woman, too?”

When Jamila nodded, Fatima studied the Ismail’s new favorite. Her luminous blue gaze met Fatima’s own between the slender marble columns.

Fatima entered the
hammam
. “Leave at once. The baths are reserved for the king’s family now.”

She spoke in the Castillan language. A flash of fury in the girl’s eyes told her she had chosen well.

The girl, who could not have been more than fifteen, shoved her bath attendants aside and stood. With her hands on her generous hips, she tossed her ink-black hair. “Who are you to speak to me so?”

“If you possessed any wisdom in that head of yours, you would not question me.”

“I am the favorite of the king, old woman.”

“And I am his mother, the daughter and sister of kings.”

Jamila touched Fatima’s arm. “What does she say in such a haughty tone?”

Fatima advanced on the girl until they stood less than an arms-length apart. The concubine crossed her arms over her small, firm breasts. Her heated gaze radiated a challenge.

“You’re so beautiful, hmm? You cannot compare to the favorite Nur al-Sabah, beloved of my father. She won the heart of a king. Her son became king in his father’s stead. Do you think you shall be like her?”

The slave smirked. “I shall give my lord a son and then you shall see.”

“And when the king is dead?” Fatima waved a hand to the Sultanas, who glowered at the girl. “The mothers of royal sons stand just there, but a few paces from you. Do you think either of them would allow the child of a slave to usurp the throne? Do you think I would set your spawn above my royal grandsons?”

Safa and Jamila’s cold stares supported Fatima’s words. The slave gathered her garments and fled.

Jamila came to Fatima. “What did you say to make her leave?”

“I reminded her that the true power of a Sultan’s harem lies in his Sultanas.”

***

After the bath, Fatima hurried through the avenue of cypress and juniper trees. At its center, Ismail reclined on golden cushions under a central pavilion. His lean fingers flicked the pert nipples of the slave whom he dallied with, before he pulled her against him. His hand slipped from her waist beneath the silken band of her trousers. Her ink-black hair spilled around his shoulders as she lowered her head.

Fatima nudged Ismail’s heel with the tip of her kidskin slipper. He yelped in sudden fright and glared at her. Fatima’s gaze fell on the slave, Jumaana. “Leave us. Now.”

For the second time that day, the concubine scrambled off in disarray.

Ismail adjusted the front of his trousers. “I wish you would not send my slaves away!”

Fatima snapped at him, “I wish you would not cavort in the gardens where I played as a child!”

“What could be so important for you to interrupt my afternoon’s pleasure?”

“You can see the
jarya
tonight or at any other time. I wish to speak of Yusuf, but I shall not do so until you’re properly attired.”

She turned her back on him. The rustle of silk and grumbled mutterings informed her that he dressed.

He tapped her shoulder. “I’ve given you everything you’ve required for Yusuf’s education. What do you want now?”

She turned to him, satisfied with his respectable appearance. “The boy shows remarkable talents, especially in his interests in architecture. I believe he would benefit from a visit to the repair work on our summer palace, Al-Janat al-Arif. Your workers expect to be finished tomorrow. Yusuf must see them today. I would have your permission to tour the site with him.”

Ismail cupped his forehead. “Bah! This is why you interrupted an afternoon’s pleasure? A boy’s whim! He would only be in the way, as would you.”

She sneered at him. “Just because you spend your days idle, with your hands down the
sarawil
of your concubines, does not mean I want the same for my grandson! If you would leave a strong Sultanate to the Crown Prince, he must have learned men surrounding him within his own family.”

“That is all you care about, the pride of this family!”

“It is the Sultan’s duty as well.” She tossed her head. “You have forgotten it. All because of this stupid slave, Jumaana.”

“She has been here for two weeks! How can she have offended you already?”

“She offends your wives.”

Ismail raked his hands through his dark hair, graying at the temples. “They are too easily affronted. I am Sultan of Gharnatah. If I wish to bed a thousand women, neither you nor my wives have any say in the matter.”

“You care nothing for their feelings. You also risked the friendship you’ve enjoyed with your sister Leila’s husband because of her.”

“My friendship with my cousin remains unchanged. His son shall accept my decision. He shall learn of this, after we meet today. He is coming to Gharnatah, with his brothers, including young Ali. My nephew shall learn the slave is mine. I shall not give her up, no matter the cost.”

“You are arrogant! It is your greatest shortcoming.”

“And yours is to think you can bind everyone to your will with just a word. You may be the
Umm al-Walad
, but you shall never rule me again!”

She turned away, lest he glimpse how his careless words wounded her.

His mirthless snigger followed. “The predictable heart that never forgives. Won’t you even pretend to it?”

“I have oft told you, my son, I shall never lie to you.”

When he gasped, Fatima raced from the garden. She had broken her promise made years ago, never to call him her son again.

***

Before the evening meal, Fatima slumbered. When she awoke fitfully, Asiya hovered at her side. “You cried out in your sleep. I was frightened.”

“I had a strange dream of my brother Muhammad. I had fallen and he was laughing at me….”

“Why should he come to you now?”

Heavy pounding sounded at her chamber door. A wavering voice cried, “Open in the name of the Sultan!”

Asiya put down the food tray and went to the door, while Fatima stood. Asiya’s scream echoed. Fearful, Fatima gripped the stucco wall.

Ibn al-Mahruq burst into the room. The Sultan’s bodyguards carried a bloodstained, prone form to her bed. Ismail, stabbed through the chest.

Fatima closed her eyes as if she could blot out the horrific sight forever. Her firstborn son’s life and blood drained away in her bedclothes.

Ibn al-Mahruq bowed at her side. “My Sultana, your son and his nephews, Ali, Faraj, and Muhammad, sons of the
Raïs
of al-Jazirah al-Khadra, they have quarreled with Sultan this evening about a slave girl. The Sultan’s nephews attacked him with daggers. I’ve called for the surgeon to bind the wounds.”

Crimson stains discolored everything, including the bedding and carpets. Ismail’s silken robe rent at the shoulders and torso. Wounds inflicted by his sister Leila’s children.

The minister drew his bloodied sword. “The
Shaykh al-Ghuzat
had them trapped in the corridor. They shall die for this treason, my Sultana. Your son shall have justice!”

After he left, Fatima slumped on to the floor.

Asiya clutched her hand. “How can I help you?”

Fatima could not answer. Her grandsons had tried to kill their uncle. Ibn al-Mahruq said they had quarreled about the slave girl Jumaana. Fatima’s family destroyed by greed and lust. Once more, the curse that had ruined fathers and sons, and turned brother against brother, had returned. Tonight, she would weep for her son and Leila’s sons.

Abu’l-Qasim entered the chamber. His shriek startled her to full awareness. “Oh my Sultana, oh what has happened here?”

“Tell the Sultanas, tell the children to come to the Sultana’s reception room,” Asiya said to him.

“No, no, they must not see this.” Abu’l-Qasim shook his head wildly.

“Find the
Hajib
, too! If the Sultan should die before he declares Crown Prince Muhammad….”

Asiya’s warning penetrated Abu’l-Qasim’s haze of grief. He dashed from the room.

Fatima stood and sought Ismail’s right hand. Bloodied fingers dangled from the bed. His forearm disappeared beneath the ruined robe, connected to the shoulder where the silken material had torn away. A deep gouge exposed pink flesh beneath the skin, down to the bone. Thick red blotches trickled from the mouth and nose. His eyes were wide, fixed on Fatima’s own.

“
Ummi
, I am dying.”

His strangled whisper tore icy shards through her heart. “No, you shall not die.”

He chuckled and coughed up blood. “You promised you would never lie to me.”

Soft sobs followed by a deep wailing echoed from the next room.

When the surgeon arrived, he pried Fatima’s fingers from Ismail’s grasp, but her son would not release his grip until Abu’l-Qasim returned and restrained him.

Asiya stood at Fatima’s side while the surgeon worked. Resignation etched in the lines of his leathery complexion, as he nodded to them.

“I can do nothing for the master, my Sultana. The wound at his right shoulder is particularly troublesome. I fear the blade has pierced his heart. I cannot staunch the bleeding.”

“Who has done this to my father?” Crown Prince Muhammad bellowed from the next room. His hot fury chilled Fatima, for in his merciless tone she heard the voice of his predecessor and namesake, her brother. When the
Hajib
responded and tried calming him, Fatima summoned the minister.