Sultana (37 page)

Faraj awaited their arrival in the throne room. He stood beside the Sultan. The chieftain of the Ashqilula, an aged Ibrahim with his eight sons in tow, led the defeated Ashqilula family. Where Ibrahim had once stood tall and proud, age had been unkind to him. He was a dried up husk of his former self, hunched and rickety with rheumy eyes and parchment-thin skin stretched over his skull. Thinning hanks of hair clung to his balding pate. Deep lines still scoured his complexion, mostly around the hollows beneath his eyes. He reminded Faraj of an old, beaten leather saddle.

Without preliminaries the Sultan stated, “Abu Ishaq Ibrahim ibn Abu’l-Hasan ‘Ali of Ashqilula, you have been declared an enemy of Gharnatah, by your acts of treason against the Sultanate. I owe you a debt of blood for the loss of one I loved, Ibrahim, but justice constrains me. As Sultan of Gharnatah, I am not above the reach of the laws I have decreed. Your blood shall not taint my hands. It is my command that you, all your relations and your supporters shall endure permanent exile from al-jazirat al-Andalus. Your sentence begins immediately upon the arrival of the rest of your supporters. Until such time, you and all your relations shall remain in the dungeons of
al-Quasaba
to await your transport to al-Maghrib el-Aska.”

Princess Fatima

Fatima sat behind the latticed
purdah
with Shams ed-Duna and Nur al-Sabah while her father pronounced his judgment. While she understood the rule of law, Ibrahim deserved death. She vowed he would not enjoy a comfortable exile outside of al-Andalus. Fourteen years later, her mother’s blood demanded justice and vengeance.

After guards led the Ashqilula family away, she left the throne room with little Ismail balanced on her hip and returned to her house.

“Fatima? Where are you, beloved?”

Faraj’s voice echoed across the expanse of the courtyard garden. As she approached, he strode through the evergreen leaves of the rosemary bushes. In the custom of men who had fathered children, he now wore a full beard, which he kept neatly trimmed. When he kissed her, the dark hairs on his chin tickled her cheek.

His almond-shaped eyes regarded her with open fondness. “You have a visitor.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to see anyone. Did you know my father was going to do that?”

His gaze faltered. “You mean the exile of the Ashqilula?”

“Yes! Although Ibrahim killed my mother, Father set him free! Father knows what she suffered at Ibrahim’s hands and he let him live!”

“Fatima, I did discuss the matter with your father before today’s proceedings. The Marinids offered asylum for the Ashqilula if your father promised not to harm any of them, even Ibrahim. The Sultan swore a sacred oath. Your father is the Lawgiver. He is rightly guided….”

“How can you say that? Would you let your father’s murderers escape? Would you?”

Ismail whimpered at her harsh tone and she hushed him.

Faraj sighed. “I would not, Fatima.”

“Then I have your permission to pursue my own course? You shall not hinder me?”

“Do as you must. Ibrahim deserves death. I caution you only to wait until after he has left al-Andalus. The Sultan would suspect too much if Ibrahim met his end here.”

Mollified, she kissed his cheek and he returned the gesture on her forehead. Ismail wriggled between the crush of his parents.

“Fatima, you must come with me to see your visitor.” When she protested, Faraj pressed his forefinger to her lips. “For once in our marriage, I would love the pleasure of my wife obeying me. Is that so much to ask?”

A playful gleam returned to his dark brown eyes. He beckoned her across the garden, opened the door to the antechamber, and motioned her inside.

Two sets of twin girls and a boy sat on the gold-striped cushions lining the base of the pale yellow stucco walls, their tiny toes barely skimming the plush multicolored carpet. A woman stood beside them, in a blue hooded cloak with a yellow circle sewn at the shoulder.

When she removed the hood, Fatima exclaimed, “Sitt al-Tujjar? Why are you here?”

Sitt al-Tujjar laughed. “When the Ashqilula surrendered, they sold off all their possessions. My agents descended on every marketplace in al-Andalus. I was fortunate enough to be at Qumarich to find Ulayyah’s children.”

Faraj added, “As before, she came to me first.”

“Your handsome prince is also very wise,” Sitt al-Tujjar interjected. “I remembered your, ah, history with the mother of these children, my Sultana. When I approached him, your husband offered to purchase the freedom of the little ones. He assured me that you would desire it.”

“These are Ulayyah’s children?” Fatima asked. “But where is she?”

The boy turned his face away. One of his sisters sobbed against his shoulder.

Faraj clasped Fatima’s arm. “She’s gone.”

“Gone? We must get her back, husband. It would mean so much to Halah.”

“Beloved, you misunderstand me.”

Sitt al-Tujjar drew closer. “After Abdallah turned traitor, Ibrahim took over his household. Ulayyah’s boy Faisal told me she tried to buy her children’s freedom. She had saved her money over the years for this one chance. Ibrahim strangled her. She is dead, my Sultana. The children saw it before they were sold away.”

Tears blurred Fatima’s vision. “It’s my fault she’s dead. Don’t you see? The money she had, it came from me. If I hadn’t paid her to spy on the Ashqilula, she would have never come to this fate.”

Faraj pulled her close and kissed her hair. “Don’t blame yourself. You could not have foreseen Ibrahim’s madness. It’s over now.”

Ulayyah’s son Faisal met her gaze with sad, wide eyes. She buried her face in her husband’s shoulder. Guilt tore at her heart.

Faraj said, “Let’s take them to your governess.”

Fatima nodded and knelt before the children. “You are safe. You are free. No one shall ever mistreat you or hurt you again. I know someone who shall be happy to see you.”

Chapter 29

 Bittersweet

Princess Fatima

Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Rajab 678 AH (Granada, Andalusia: November AD 1279)

As the coolness of autumn winds swirled around them, Fatima stood with Amoda at the entrance of the house. Faraj cantered his horse in a circle with his son on his lap. Ismail chortled and waved his chubby arms in the air. When they came around again, Faraj slowed the horse and handed down the baby to his governess.

Fatima asked. “Is he not too young for horses?”

Faraj slid from the gelding’s back easily, since his legs nearly dangled to the ground. “It’s never too early for a prince of the Nasrids to study his horsemanship.”

Amoda said, “I shall take Prince Ismail in now, my master.”

Before Amoda left, Fatima kissed her son’s little hands covered in woolen mittens. When he giggled, she could not resist another kiss on his pink cheeks. Amoda disappeared into the house with him on her hip.

Faraj took Fatima’s hand. “I met with your father. We leave tomorrow for Malaka.”

She nodded. He led her to a marble bench beneath a swaying date palm. “There’s something I must tell you, beloved. It is something I have never spoken of to anyone else.”

They sat together. After a weary sigh, he asked, “You remember the story of my parents’ deaths?”

“Yes, I have always remembered what you told me.”

Her heart ached for him, that he must now confront the ghosts of his past in Malaka. She sensed his thoughts were far away, as he stared at the ground.

“I’ve told you of the night they died, but never fully shared how I felt, my emotions on that night, how their deaths changed me forever. I became a different person, unfeeling, conniving. Vengeance ruled my heart. All I ever wanted was to reclaim my birthright. I did not care about anything or anyone else. Not my half-brother or my sisters, not even myself.”

She touched a finger to his trembling lips. “My heart, anyone can understand how hard it must have been for you, barely ten years old. To have seen what you saw…it would have altered a man, much less a young boy.”

 “I remember how it was before, when we were happy. I used to ride along the shore with my father once a week. He trained my half-brother and me to use the sword and the bow.”

She sighed while he spoke of the happy life he had at Malaka, even with the rivalry between he and his half-brother.

“I was so ashamed of my parents,” he whispered, pausing to draw breath before he continued, “ashamed of them for dying as they did. I decided, right there in our ruined home that I would never be like them. I would never submit to fate. For many years, I could not forgive them for what they had let happen to them. The guilt I have felt has burdened me. My parents’ blood cries out for justice, Fatima. When I killed Doñ Nuño, I thought the pain would have lessened. His death was a hollow victory, bittersweet. I won’t feel I’ve honored my parents until the real culprit is dead.”

Fatima’s heart wrung with pity at the sight of his face, twisted now in anguish.

He knelt before her and cupped her pale hands in his dark olive ones. “Your father has offered exile to the Ashqilula. Abu Muhammad cannot join them. He must pay for what he did to my family. Then, I shall feel as though I have truly avenged my family and our losses.”

“Please, Faraj, the Sultan’s justice awaits him. I know your heart rebels against it, but you must accept and let justice prevail. I want Abu Muhammad dead too, but do not risk your life to kill him. We must wait for another opportunity.”

“How can you say so? You have told me nothing further, but I know you and your eunuch are plotting the demise of Ibrahim. Why should he suffer alone? Abu Muhammad shall join him in death, at my hand.”

“The life of Abu Muhammad is meaningless compared to yours.” She lifted his fingers and kissed them. “Do not risk it for vengeance’s sake. Would you see your son orphaned and your wife made a widow? My father shall surely kill you if you disobey him. Do not do it, please. Let my father’s soldiers take him. We shall deal with him afterward.” 

The next morning, Fatima held her son in the garden courtyard while they awaited Faraj. The household servants gathered behind them. The Sultan’s army prepared to leave Gharnatah for Malaka.

Faraj approached in his long shirt of black chain mail and his brass helmet, the nose-guard obscuring his features. Ismail whimpered at the sight of him and turned away, bawling.

“He doesn’t recognize you,” Fatima said. “He’s never seen you in armor.”

He removed the helmet and kissed their son’s dark auburn hair. Ismail fussed and Amoda took him on her hip. Fatima drew her husband away.

He hugged her. “I’ve asked you too many times to wait here for my return.”

“It’s no more than the burden you bear. I shall pray for your safekeeping. Please, remember what I have said about Abu Muhammad. You cannot go against my father’s will. The exile of the Ashqilula chieftains must be enough for both of us now. When the time is right, we shall each have true justice for our parents.”

He embraced her again in silence. With a kiss on her brow, he left her.

Fatima stared long after he had gone. “God be with him. God be with them all this day.”

Prince Faraj

The army of Gharnatah rode across the craggy, rocky headland of al-Andalus, its wide brown plains and the dried remnants of orchards. A strong morning breeze from the sea came ashore. Malaka rose above the landscape in the distance. Restless, Faraj’s mount pranced beneath him.

Under the shade of a fig tree, he reached up for a shriveled lump, peeled back the skin and bit into it. As a child, he once played with his father’s pages among the fig groves planted around the citadel. He wondered whether the Ashqilula had maintained the grounds as he remembered. He wondered whether his half-brother thought Malaka looked the same as in their childhood. He glanced at him furtively.

His half-brother led a cavalry detachment today. Surprised to see him, Faraj had questioned his presence. In response, his half-brother shrugged.

The Crown Prince ordered the sounding of the battle horns. “They’ve expected us for weeks, enough time to mount a resistance against our siege.”

Faraj turned from glaring at his half-brother. “Why not sue for the terms of a peaceful surrender first? Abu Muhammad has no more support. He can’t hope to defend the city against siege weapons.”

The Crown Prince shook his head. “Who knows what he may expect? Besides, what is the fun in a peaceful surrender? There would be no glory for us, eh?”

Some of the commanders around him yelled their assent and rattled their weapons, but Faraj did not join them. “If you attack Malaka with siege weapons, you’ll destroy
Al-Jabal Faro
. It is an important bastion on the coast. Your father wants those defenses maintained.”

The Crown Prince’s scowl descended. “Father’s not here yet you think only of his commands. Fine. Send a herald to sue for this damnable peace.”

Flying the white flag of peace, their courier rode across the plains toward Malaka. When he returned, his face seemed glazed in shock. “They’ve surrendered.”

The Crown Prince raised his hand, ready to direct the commanders and their regiments forward.

“No! I have seen Ashqilula treachery at Madinah Antaqirah,” Faraj cautioned. “They pretended to surrender to the Sultan and then tried to cut him down. No, if the Ashqilula have surrendered, they should send out Abu Muhammad.”

“Faraj is full of advice today,” his half-brother commented dryly. Faraj scowled at him but vowed one day to settle the discord between his half-brother and him.

The Crown Prince sent the herald to the gates again. The messenger returned an hour later. “Great prince, they say they are ready to admit defeat, but they cannot surrender the governor to you. They say he is gone. No one saw him leave, not even his own family, but he is nowhere in the citadel or the governor’s castle.”

Faraj cursed and slapped his thigh. “Gone? Abu Muhammad would never just leave the city like that! It must be a trick.”