Sultana's Legacy (8 page)

Her stubborn refusal to accept her father’s faults affected her relationships with everyone, even the bond with her beloved husband. She had argued so ardently against Faraj’s actions because of the duty she still owed to her father. Fatima shook her head. Her loyalty to the Sultan vied with her care for Faraj. How could she hope to reconcile the interests of the two men she loved most in life?

Alimah turned away from Fatima, her last words carried on the wind. “If the Sultan wants forgiveness, let him seek it from God. I have none to give.”  

***

Three days later, Fatima, Niranjan and her maidservants had joined a camel caravan headed for Gharnatah. They traveled without guards from Malaka. The merchants did not ask questions regarding their haste, thanks to the full purse of
dinars
Niranjan had pressed into the eager hands of the caravan leader.

Fatima felt certain Faraj must have reached the capital by now. Would she arrive in time to find his head mounted on a spike atop the
Bab Ilbira
? Her heart, shredded into bloody, bitter pieces, rejected the inevitable. Her head cautioned that Faraj was still alive. She accepted this understanding without question. He lived and if only she might reach him in time, he might escape the Sultan’s wrath.

When they sighted the burnished redbrick walls of Gharnatah in the distance, frigid air from the mountains descended without mercy. Heavy gray clouds clung to the peaks and nearly obscured their jagged heights. Fatima pulled her mantle tighter about her and ducked her head against the cold, urging her horse onward.

She and Niranjan parted with the caravan at the main gate. A sigh of relief rippled through her, as her gaze scoured the walls and found no grisly display atop the main city gate. The streets emptied, as the call of prayer at midday echoed throughout the bustling city.

Grateful for the diminished crowd, Fatima rode up the steep incline of the
Sabika
hill perched high above the valley below. The guards patrolling the palace precincts gave her and Niranjan entry at
al-Quasaba
.

As they moved beyond the citadel’s double walls, where her father’s soldiers patrolled the stone parapet walkways, she whispered, “Please, dear God, don’t let it be too late.”

Prince Faraj

Gharnatah, Al-Andalus: Dhu al-Qa`da 693 AH (Granada, Andalusia: October AD 1294)

Faraj lingered in the shadowy recesses of the council chamber, pacing the stonework floor. The call to prayer reverberated through the thick masonry of the walls. It was the second time he had heard it since his arrival in Gharnatah during the early morning. He had observed his ablutions and the rituals of
Salat al-Fajr
with a reverence and calmness he had never felt before. Was this how it felt for all who faced their ending? Did the same peace wash over them? He pondered this and his parting with Fatima.

He had forced himself from her side at Malaka, when his mind screamed a warning that he should listen to her pleas. She had never led him astray before, his most dutiful and loyal companion. Yet, he knew he could not forsake his convictions, even if it meant losing her forever. His sole regret was the bitter accusation simmering in her expression. She had fought for him before, accepted his lies. No one had ever recognized his frailties and loved him despite them.

Jumbled thoughts vied with each other. She was right. There was still time. He could return to her and their children, even if only for a brief moment. They might even escape together.

Still, he clenched his fists at his side, his feet rooted to the floor. Where could they go that the Sultan would not find them? How could he condemn his beloved and their children to a life of exile?

His determination wavered as time wore on. How long would the Sultan keep him waiting?

Only Khalid stayed at his side, leaning against one of four slender columns in the room. The faint golden glow of a central lantern at the apex of the columns provided the barest light, enough to illuminate Khalid’s ever-present scowl. The rest of Faraj’s men waited at
al-Quasaba
. He had dismissed them at Malaka, determined that they would not share in his folly. For the first time, they had disobeyed his orders.

A door at the northern end of the
mashwar
creaked. Khalid stood at attention and his hand flew to the pommel of his sword. Faraj shook his head and the captain’s fingers relaxed.

Muhammad II, Sultan of Gharnatah strode into the room, a row of his personal bodyguards on either side of him. Musk and ambergris wafted through the air with each footfall. Reverent admiration filled Faraj, coupled with the sensation of dread prickling along his spine. His resolve crumbled before the majesty of his father in-law.

The Sultan neared his fifty-ninth birthday, but he moved with a confident and purposeful stride that belied alterations brought on by age. Gray streaks lined the length of the Sultan’s once dark hair, now curling at the nape. Small, dark blotches marked his sallow skin. Like Faraj, he also dyed his full beard with henna. Richly embroidered
tiraz
bands decorated the billowing sleeves of his green
jubba
. The sleeves nearly hid hands glittering with several gold rings. A silken cord trimmed at the ends with gold braid belted the
jubba
neatly at his trim waist.

Faraj fell on both knees, as did his captain. Both bent double until their heads touched the floor.

An interminable time passed while Faraj waited, in which the Sultan’s raspy breathing filled the room. Faraj did not dare look up until his master acknowledged him. Then silken robes shuffled across the stonework before a shadow fell over him.

“You dare….” A hoarse wheeze escaped the Sultan. “You dare come before me, traitor. Did you forsake the campaign at Tarif? Has your treachery cost me that city? Look me full in the face and tell me you have not betrayed me. Stand up and answer, man!”

Faraj’s heart pitched inside his chest, but he stood and met the Sultan’s hawk-eyed stare. Cold rage glittered in his master’s eyes.

“You do not even try?”

The Sultan’s hand swung in a wide arc. Faraj stumbled and nearly fell from the force of the backhanded blow. He staggered before righting himself. All the arguments and pleas he had prepared on the swift journey to Gharnatah melted before his master’s hot fury.

How was it possible? How could the Sultan already know what had transpired at Tarif? A heavy weight like stones settled in Faraj’s stomach. Someone had divulged his intent. His heart rebelled against the likelihood of it, for there was only one person with motive and opportunity who could have betrayed him. It would seem he had been a fool, after all.

The Sultan turned to his guards. “Arrest the
Raïs
of Malaka. Bind his companion and take their weapons.”

Six men, a third of the Sultan’s bodyguards, surged forward and surrounded Faraj. One drew manacles and tugged Faraj’s hands behind his back. He removed Faraj’s sword and dagger from their sheaths. The other guardsmen glowered at him, their daggers in hand, prepared for his resistance. Faraj offered none, even though Khalid’s furious gaze burned into his. Yet like Faraj, he stood still while the Sultan’s men removed his weapons.

Then, Faraj’s brother Muhammad stepped out from behind the Sultan’s guards and waddled toward him. As he bowed at their master’s side, Faraj clamped his jaw tight and swallowed back the bile filling his gorge.

Muhammad eyed him. “I was right about you, Faraj. You have never deserved my loyalty. For years, I have watched you prosper from the generosity of others. Our father named you his heir though scant days separated the dates of our births. I was his son too, but you were his beloved heir. After his murder, when we came to Gharnatah, you ingratiated yourself with the old Sultan. Your reward was his trust, his granddaughter and Malaka, which was my home, too. I have languished in your shadow, but no more. I have learned the lessons you taught, brother. I shall use them to gain as you have.”

Faraj collapsed into raucous laughter, though as he bent, the movement strained the sinews along his arms. The Sultan’s guards forced him upright again.

“You think the Sultan shall give you Malaka now? You forget I have sired a son who shall soon achieve his manhood. He has claim, not you.”

Muhammad glanced at the Sultan, who turned his dark glower on him. “Is that why you came here in all haste with news of your brother’s betrayal? You thought I would give the governorship to you, instead of allowing Ismail to inherit it?”

Muhammad blanched. Perspiration dotted his brow. “I…but, he is just a boy and his father is a traitor!”

“Ismail is my grandson. Malaka is his birthright.” The icy precision of the Sultan’s voice matched his frigid stare.

Muhammad sputtered and waved his hand at Faraj, “My Sultan, I have told you everything he did at Tarif, how he counseled the abandonment of the siege. He met with the Ashqilula, your enemies. He let them escape again. You cannot do this….”

When the Sultan’s face colored a reddened mask of ferocity, Muhammad pleaded, “I have risked everything to bring you this news. I deserve a reward.”

The Sultan clasped his hands together. “You shall have it. Not Malaka.”

Faraj chuckled. “You took too long to learn those lessons, Muhammad. Mark me, for I shall see you again in the hellfire of
Jahannam
. We shall wear the garments of fire and be bound in boiling water for eternity, together.”

“You shall meet your end there first!” Muhammad’s guttural scream preceded his lurch toward Faraj.

”Stop him!” The Sultan’s order rang through the chamber.

Two of his bodyguards turned. Their curved daggers plunged into Muhammad’s stomach.

Faraj’s own belly twisted as the Damascene steel sank beneath silk and flesh. Muhammad gurgled and his eyes widened. A froth of spittle and blood bubbled at the corner of his fleshy mouth. He sagged on his knees and toppled sideways.

His stare remained fixed on Faraj’s face. “I curse you and all your lineage, forever.”

The Sultan knelt beside him. His bodyguards panted at his side and stared at each other red-faced, almost catatonic. The Sultan retrieved their daggers, each time drawing a sharp cry from Muhammad. The men took their bloodied weapons.

Muhammad croaked in a harsh whisper, “I call down the wrath of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful upon you, Faraj. May God hear my prayer.”

He groaned and his head lolled on the stone floor. “There is no God but God, and Muhammad, may peace be upon him-”

“-is His messenger,” Faraj murmured, finishing the words of the
Shahadah
, the Profession of the Faith, as his brother breathed his last.

Faraj sighed at the loss of a final opportunity to reconcile their differences. He had truly hoped, as expressed at Tarif, to bring them together. It was a fool’s hope. Their lives had always run divergent courses. Yet, he would see Muhammad soon enough, united in death.

The Sultan rose. “A waste of a life. He chased another’s dream instead of his own.”

Faraj met his stare again. “Send my brother back to Malaka. It is what he would have wanted. I beg only this indulgence, though I have no right to ask it.”

“You are correct. You have no right to ask. The rivalry between you and Muhammad led him to this end. You bear responsibility for his death, too. His body goes to his family at Qumarich.”

Faraj hung his head. “Whatever you may think of me now, know that I have always served you loyally.”

“Except at Tarif. You thought only of your honor and in doing so, you have determined your fate. Just as your brother’s actions sealed his.”

The Sultan joined the remainder of his guards and left the room, saying as he went, “Take the
Raïs
of Malaka and all of his men beneath the
madina
, along the tunnels to
al-Quasaba
, until I decree a time for the governor’s execution. Summon slaves to cleanse the room of this morning’s treachery and blood.”

Princess Fatima

Fatima sprinted across the crowded cobblestone street from
al-Quasaba
, pushing her way among courtiers who cursed at her. She had found one of Faraj’s men waiting in the shade of the barracks. He warned her that the Sultan had summoned her husband to the
mashwar
an hour after
Salat al-Fajr
.

“Faraj? Faraj! Where are you?”

“My Sultana, your skirts! I can see your ankles.” Niranjan panted behind her.

What did she care for modesty when her husband’s life was in danger? She regretted her harsh words to him in days past. He had to live, or she would die.

She entered the first courtyard of her father’s palace and spied the Sultan crossing its northern border, shadowed by his guardsmen. She waved a hand for Niranjan and her maidservants to remain behind her.

Before her father disappeared into the cavernous throne room, she called out, “No, please wait!”

The Sultan turned at the echo of her voice, the skirts of his silk robe swirling around his feet. Fatima reached him and embraced him fervently, forgetting all the propriety that demanded she should have abased herself. Her eyes watered with tears of fear, joy, and heartbreak united. She had not seen her father for four years, since she had brought Qabiha to Gharnatah for her grandfather’s blessing.

Now, the Sultan clung to her before he drew back and framed her face in his large hands. “Why did you come here?”

“I had to.”

His fervent grip slackened and fell away. “You are here because of your husband.”

“Noble father, you have seen him?”

“I have done so.”

Fatima studied his pale face for clues.

He offered none. Instead, the fine lines etched in his complexion deepened. “Then you also know what he has done and why he came to Gharnatah. It would have been better for him, for both of you, if he had fled Al-Andalus.”