Sultana (36 page)

Faraj smiled at Abu Umar’s obvious nervousness and anticipation. In thirteen long years of his own marriage, he had known contention and contentment with Fatima. The arguments and misunderstandings paled in comparison to their mutual happiness, now soon to be complete with the arrival of their first child. He looked down at his hands, imagining them holding his son or daughter aloft.

At the end of the wedding ceremony, the male guests wished the chieftain well. Immediately afterward, the marital feast began, as did the teasing about the impending nuptial night. Muhammad II introduced Abu Umar to his new family by marriage.

A eunuch who hovered at the Sultan’s elbow interrupted the wedding and whispered in his master’s ear.

The Sultan thumped Faraj’s shoulder. “Fatima has likely started her labor. Shams ed-Duna and my
kadin
have taken her to the birthing room in my harem. They have summoned the midwife. These things take time. The women can let us know how her labor progresses. You must not worry for her. The midwife shall arrive soon and Fatima is in the care of Shams ed-Duna, my
kadin
and my father’s wives.”

“But what if she needs me?”

“You cannot attend the birthing. No man should see such things. Be at ease, she and the child shall be well.”

Faraj sat among the other guests and tried to appear jovial as before. The celebration lasted well into the afternoon. After he ate, musicians and dancing girls paraded between the tables but he paid them scant attention. The Sultan nodded to him and together they left the reception, while an enticing Syrian belly dancer held Abu Umar enraptured.

As they walked, the Sultan said over his shoulder, “I am concerned that none of the women have sent word, as I know you must be.”

Several of the royal women waited in the courtyard, including the bride Sultana Alimah, a vision of beauty in her gleaming, gold garments.

Faraj asked her, “Has there been no word of Fatima or the child?” Alimah shook her head.

Muhammad II spoke with a female slave who entered the courtyard. After she disappeared into the women’s quarters, the Sultan’s
kadin
came out and bowed.

“Your daughter fares as best she can, my Sultan, but…there is a problem with the baby. The midwife says the child is not in the correct birth position. When the midwife visited Fatima last week, she palpated her stomach. Then, the baby’s head was where it should have been. The child can be born with its legs and bottom first, but the midwife says it shall be difficult for Fatima.”

Faraj’s heart fluttered inside his chest. “I don’t want Fatima to suffer. What’s this midwife going to do?”

The Sultan and his favorite turned to him, wide-eyed. Nur replied, “Calm yourself. The child cannot be born without help. The midwife is very experienced. Fatima trusts her.”

Faraj nodded. “With your permission, my Sultan, I want to see my wife.”

Gasps of outrage and dismay echoed among the women, but he continued, “I cannot wait here, not knowing how she fares!”

Muhammad II said, “Nur al-Sabah has told us what we need to know, Faraj.”

“Still, I want to see Fatima.”

The Sultan shook his head, but his
kadin
put her lily-white hand on his arm. “If my master would allow it, the princess might be happy to see her husband, for a moment. She tries to be brave but she is concerned for the child’s safety. She’s frightened.”

Muhammad II mulled her words. “Faraj, if you promise not to upset my daughter, you may see her. When the midwife asks you to leave, do so without delay.”

The
kadin
beckoned Faraj. Narrow steps led to the upper chamber. The occupants met his arrival with openmouthed expressions.

Nur explained, “Prince Faraj has the Sultan’s permission to be here.”

“Then bid him see his wife and be gone,” barked the old midwife, who knelt at Fatima’s side.

Fatima’s stepmother hovered, patting her brow with a cloth. The widows of the former Sultan watched from the corners, as Faraj knelt and took Fatima’s hand. It trembled in his grip.

Her voice wavered when she spoke. “Faraj…our son.” Tears cascaded down her cheeks and her lips trembled.

He kissed her slim fingers. “He shall be well by the grace of our God. Do not be fearful, love, trust only in God.”

The midwife removed the sheet and revealed Fatima’s engorged belly. Her palm flat on Fatima’s stomach, she studied the water clock across the room. Droplets fell in a steady interval, before Fatima gasped. Her abdomen tightened and rippled.

“Yes, the pain is more intense now, which means your time draws nearer,” the midwife whispered. “This prince of the Nasrids shall be born soon.”

She glanced at Faraj. “My husband is a physician. He has shown me how to help birth a breech baby. This shall not be easy for your wife. It may not go as I intend. If one or both lives are imperiled, I may have to make a choice between the mother and the child.”

He shook his head. “There’s one choice for me. I can have other children, but I shall only have this woman for my wife.”

The midwife nodded and patted Fatima’s hand.

Sultana Shams ed-Duna said, “This is truly no place for a man, my prince. You should leave now. You would not want to remain.”

Fatima squeezed his hand. “Please…stay with me. Don’t go.”

He did not ask if she was sure, only glared at the other occupants of the room.

The midwife nodded. “If she wishes you to stay then you must help her.”

Fatima groaned as her abdomen tightened rapidly, signaling more intense pains. The midwife brought forward an ornately carved chair, with a large hole in the base. She examined Fatima again.

“My Sultana, you must prepare yourself. The head of a baby normally comes first. It is easier for the womb to expel the rest. The birth canal opens wide enough to allow the head to pass through, but a breech birth is different. It shall be painful, but you and the child shall live.”

Fatima nodded, licking her cracked lips. The Sultan’s
kadin
appeared at her side with an earthenware cup of water, from which she drank greedily.

Faraj kissed her hand again. “Know that I am here with you and our child.”

“Our son, remember? I promised you a son.”

“Yes, a son.”

Fatima’s lips trembled as she tried to smile through her tears. The midwife massaged her abdomen. She groaned and shuddered while the woman worked, but her gaze did not waver from Faraj. Each grimace and stifled cry stabbed at his heart.

Time passed slowly, the hours never-ending. The midwife warned birth was imminent. “We must move her before she becomes too weary to push.”

Faraj lifted Fatima to the stool at the room’s center. The midwife instructed him to kneel and support her with his arms. Her eyes closed, her head lolled against his shoulder. The
kadin
and Sultana Shams ed-Duna hovered beside them.

He whispered against his wife’s damp curls, “Love, you must ready yourself. Now is the time for our son to be born, our Ismail.”

“Ismail…for your honored father? Yes, that is…a good name,” Fatima replied in a hoarse whisper.

She labored tirelessly, while everyone urged her to push. The midwife aided her efforts and eased the child’s passage. Fatima looked weary and bloodied. Though delirious with pain, she kept up the struggle.

“Where is he? Why do I not hear him cry yet?” Fatima groaned weakly.

The Sultan’s
kadin
urged, “You’re not done. Push again with the next contraction.”

As Fatima expelled the contents of her womb, the baby’s loud echoing cry erupted.

The midwife proclaimed, “Here’s a fine son for you and the Sultana, Prince Faraj.”

Many emotions filled Faraj as his and Fatima’s child entered the world in a gush of fluids, just as sunset bathed the room in a fiery glow. When the midwife held the newborn up by the legs and cradled his head, Fatima laughed and cried all at once. A thin line of fluid streamed down his body. White paste covered his tiny form. The midwife tied a piece of red twine around the birth cord and severed it.

Moments later, the midwife laid the child on his mother’s belly. Fatima touched his head and Faraj covered her hand with his. The midwife took the newborn away for a moment, before she bathed and swaddled him.

She returned to Fatima’s side and gestured to Faraj. “Would you like to hold your son, my prince?”

The tiny bundle in his arms, Faraj stared in wonder at his son’s face. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he did not care that the women of the Sultan’s court saw. Then he remembered his duty. Love for the miracle of his and Fatima’s creation overwhelmed his heart, as he bent to whisper the Profession of the Faith and the Muslim call to prayer to the child.

Dressed in a new robe, Fatima rested on another pallet. He brought their child to her.

She opened her eyes at the same time her son did. Easing herself into a sitting position, she cradled him in the nook of her arm and kissed his fuzzy, dark-red hair.

Faraj smiled at their tiny family. “He is beautiful, just as you are.”

She took his hand and placed it on their tiny son’s chest. “He has your spirit inside him.”

“Ismail shall be like you, not me. I pray he may have all your good traits and none of my faults.”

She nuzzled their son gently, adoration glowing in her eyes. The midwife showed her how to nurse. “Hold your breast, with the thumb and index finger. Bring the baby up now.”

The midwife tickled the baby’s pink lips and he opened his mouth to close on the nipple.

Faraj sat behind them and kissed Fatima’s shoulder. “I have one regret about his birth.”

Fatima whispered, “What is that, my love?”

“I wish he had been born in our home, instead of the Sultan’s harem.”

“Why should that matter?”

“Only heirs to the throne have ever been born in a Sultan’s harem.”

Fatima gasped and clutched their child closer. “That can never be our Ismail’s fate. I’ll never allow it.”

Enraptured in the sight of their newborn, Faraj did not question the solemnity of her vow.

Chapter 28

 The Victors

Prince Faraj

Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Rabi al-Awwal – Jumada l-Ula 678 AH (Granada, Andalusia: August – September AD 1279)

Six months after the birth of their son, Faraj and Fatima settled into their roles as parents of a healthy and bright baby, blessed with auburn hair and his grandfather’s eyes. They celebrated everything their son did as a major accomplishment. Neither of them could bear to be apart from him for too long.

On a late summer morning, they enjoyed the delicate beauty and the fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle in the garden courtyard. Amoda, whom Fatima appointed as governess, brought their son. “The little prince has something to show you!”

Fatima became alert, rising from where she languished with her head in Faraj’s lap. “Is he well?”

Amoda set Ismail, with his dimples and creased legs, on the marble. She left a distance of several paces between them. At her urging, he crawled across the floor.

Faraj scooped him up. “Crawling already! Soon, you shall walk. Then, you shall ride your first pony.”

“I think not,” Fatima said, deftly reaching for Ismail. “You and Father would have him defending the Sultanate and riding off into battle before he is a man. I want him safe at home with me, always.”

She kissed the squirming baby and held him close.

Then, the Sultan entered the garden with his the Crown Prince. “It is a blessed morning.”

Faraj replied, “Indeed. I trust you’re well and you also, Crown Prince Muhammad.”

The Sultan patted Ismail’s head and tickled his chin. “How is my fine grandson today?”

Fatima smiled. “He’s well, Father. He started crawling.”

The Sultan grinned. “We shall have him walking and then riding his first horse soon.”

Faraj looked at Fatima with a sheepish grin. She rolled her eyes.

Her brother scowled. “You’re feeding him too much, Fatima. Isn’t he getting fat?”

She said, “My son is not too fat, he’s in excellent health.”

Faraj frowned at her icy tone and the cold contempt in her eyes. What could have provoked such a reaction to her brother?

Muhammad held out his arms. “Let me hold my nephew.”

Fatima clutched Ismail closer. “It’s time for his nap. Please, excuse us.”

She bowed and took the baby with her, Amoda in tow.

Faraj gaped in her wake long after she had gone. Then he faced Muhammad. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to offend you.”

“There’s no need for an apology.” Muhammad yawned, as if already bored. “New mothers are always overprotective of their children.”

The Sultan patted Faraj’s shoulder. “I’ve received a missive this morning of great importance. Let us talk in private.”

They went to the small antechamber. Faraj gestured for them to sit on the green damask cushions and summoned a slave to bring fruit and water.

While they waited, Muhammad II said, “Abdallah of Ashqilula, the brother of my late wife, has gone into a self-imposed exile. He fled to Jumhuriyat Misr this month, the land of the pharaohs and the pyramids.”

While Faraj reeled in astonishment, he continued, “More importantly, Abdallah took over fifteen hundred Ashqilula warriors with him, half of the men at-arms that supported the family. The loss of such a sizable force leaves our enemy vulnerable. Now, I intend to disperse my army and navy to attack every domain under Ashqilula control, save for one.”

Faraj waited for him to speak.

“We shall save the prize for last. Malaka.”

In the six weeks that followed, the Ashqilula defensive bastion of Wadi-Ash, close to the capital, fell first. Further south, Arsiduna capitulated and shortly afterward, the town of Lawsa surrendered. Within two weeks, the denizens of the cities of al-Hamma, al-Mariyah and even Qumarich revolted against their Ashqilula masters, who could not provide food or water with the Sultan’s siege engines battering at the gates. As the Sultan’s enemies ceded each territory, his army arrested and transported the chieftains and their families to Gharnatah, to hear the judgment of Muhammad II.