Sultana (10 page)

“Hush, hush now! It’s over, you’re safe, Fatima, safe with your family again.”

“No! No! No!”

He twisted her in his arms and lifted her off the ground. Her eyes were wild and bloodshot. His heart cleaved in two, for he recognized the hurt inside her. He had once felt the same way.

“Unhand her, give her to me.”

When the Crown Prince reached for her, he hesitated to relinquish his hold. The man’s icy glare pinned him in place. Fatima’s screams gave way to sobs and she buried her face in his neck. Her hot tears soaked the collar of his tunic.

He said, “Forgive me, but I understand better than any of you what she must be feeling.”

The Crown Prince sneered. “Truly?”

“Yes. I saw my father killed and my mother dying when I was but a year older than she is now. Only one who has witnessed such things could understand what it does to a person. Please, let me comfort her.”

The Sultan eyed him and then nodded to his son. “He has the right.”

“I am still her father! Are you saying I can’t be a comfort to my own child?”

“I am saying Faraj shares the same, terrible bond of grief with your daughter, at the violent loss of a parent. He has seen the things she has seen. Let him console her. Instead, help your son up.” 

Until now, it seemed everyone had forgotten about Muhammad. He shrugged off his father’s hold and smeared the blood on his nose with the back of his hand. With a silent glare at Fatima, he left the chamber.

“I’ll talk to him later,” the Crown Prince said. He glanced at Faraj. “For now, take Fatima to her room. I shall lead you.”

Holding her against him, Faraj followed the Crown Prince out, past the myrtles and slender, carved columns of the buildings. He looked over his shoulder when the bronze-skinned slave, who had delivered Fatima to his house earlier, fell into step behind him.

At an archway, turquoise-colored damask curtains embroidered at the hems with gold lace fluttered along the walls. The silky cloth billowed with each gust of the morning breeze. They crossed the threshold into a long corridor, with eight niches. Within each, a eunuch-guard stood with a spear in hand and a short dagger in its sheath. Each man inclined his head as they walked.

They entered a room with four alcoves. The Crown Prince gestured to a pallet in the far left corner. “Put her there. She needs to sleep.”

“It may be difficult for her to sleep. Sleep brings dreams, the terrible things she has seen, to life again. If you would permit it, I shall remain with her until she calms and closes her eyes.”

Faraj stared straight ahead and avoided the Crown Prince’s darkening expression.

“Now, you believe you can judge her needs better than I can? Do you think because you claim her as a wife that you know her? I am her father!”

“I have not forgotten. I only want to help her.”

“Then help her!” The edge of impatience that had crept into the Crown Prince’s voice rippled through the air.

He raked his hands through his hair. When he sighed and nodded, Faraj carried Fatima to her pallet.

“I shall do what I can.”

Her cries had subsided to tremors. When he bent toward the pallet and relinquished his hold, she whimpered and gripped the folds of his garment with a claw-like hand. He silently understood and scooped her up. He lowered himself to the ground next to the pallet. Her grip slackened, her body went limp, and she resumed weeping on his shoulder.

The slave who had followed them now stood at the end of the pallet. He bowed before the Crown Prince, who shook his head and left them.

Faraj sighed wearily and briefly shifted his hold on Fatima. Her hand swept up and tightened around his neck. He murmured against her hair. “Hush, you are safe. I am here with you.”

She trembled against him. Unthinking, he nuzzled her hair and cradled her closer. He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. Seven knots of lapis-lazuli and gold filigree encircled the domed heights of the room. Fatima lived amid such beauty, but now she had witnessed the ugliness of life also, a sight he knew she would never forget. The Sultan was right – a terrible bond connected them.

“
Ummi
.”

He raised his head at the sound of her plaintive whimper. His hand slid from her shaking shoulder down her back. Her tears pooled at the nape of his neck. His stomach knotted and contracted into a tight ball. He curled and uncurled his fingers at her back.

Each sob tore at him, tearing open deep wounds buried within his soul. Memories cluttered his mind and clouded his voices, violent images from a past he could never forget.

“You, come here,” he said to the youth who hovered at the foot of the pallet. “Take her from me.”

The slave’s eyes narrowed with suspicion and he hesitated.

“Damn you, I said take her.” Faraj struggled against the quaver in his voice.

The slave recoiled, his expression pinched. Despite the wrinkles furrowing his brow, he approached and scooped up Fatima in his lanky arms. “I thought you said you wanted to help her. Was that a lie?”

“I won’t tolerate questions from a slave.”

“I may be a slave, but I have more strength than one too cowardly to bear this child’s pain.”

Faraj lurched to his feet, his hand upraised.

“Would you do it, strike me down knowing I hold the Crown Prince’s beloved daughter in my arms?” The slave swung Fatima away from him. “What is she to you? A mere child, the granddaughter of our noble master, beyond your caring or concern? Why did you marry her, if you think it too much to be there for her when she needs you most? Is that not the duty of a husband, to comfort his bride in times of sorrow? You cannot imagine the horror she must have seen, or how bravely she has borne this pain.”

When Faraj laughed, the sound seemed hollow and pathetic to his ears. “You couldn’t be more wrong. It’s a pain I understand all too well.”

“Then help her, as you promised her noble father that you would. She needs you, as much as she needs him and the rest of her family.”

Faraj’s heart palpitated wildly, as his vision swam. “Don’t you understand? I can’t! Not anymore.”

He waved the slave away and left them.

“Then you’re a coward, my lord.” The slave’s echoing condemnation chased him from the room. “Forgive me for saying it. May God help my mistress bear the burden of being wed to a weakling like you. You do not deserve her. She may be a child, but she is stronger than you….”

Faraj blinked harshly as he emerged in the full glare of the sun. Shielding his eyes behind his hands, he noticed the Sultan and his son in conversation beside a column.

The Sultan looked at him. “Is Fatima asleep already?”

He shook his head and stumbled before he backed off.

The Crown Prince glared at him. “What have you done with my daughter? You left her alone. I thought you wanted to stay with her.”

“I cannot….” His voice was a low moan, brimming with all the pain and confusion churning inside him.

He turned on his heel and escaped the demands of the Crown Prince. He broke into a run, fleeing the demons of his own violent past. He could not aid Fatima against the nightmares that would soon assail her. It was useless to try, when he did not know how to help himself.

Chapter 7

Kings and Counselors

Prince Faraj

Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Ramadan 664 AH (Granada, Andalusia: June AD 1266)

Ten days into the holy month of fasting, Faraj stood on the battlements of the citadel. The midday sun beat down on his head without mercy. He could not escape the heat, anymore than he could escape this meeting between his master and the Marinids.

A detachment of Marinid warriors streamed through the western gate, under the watchful gaze of the Sultan and the Crown Prince. Their commander, Umar of the family Mahalli, rode at the forefront. The Sultan of al-Maghrib el-Aska had promised Umar was the fiercest defender of the Faith in all the Islamic lands. Faraj understood this to mean the Marinid warrior was a religious fanatic, but he wondered whether the commander was the right sort of fanatic for what the Sultan of Gharnatah had in mind.

Nine months on, the conflict with the Ashqilula had escalated. According to the Sultan’s spies, they now offered their allegiance to King Alfonso of Castilla-Leon, who supplied them with a thousand Castillan knights for their protection. Provocation indeed – but the Sultan hoped the arrival of the Marinids, the new allies he sought, would prove the downfall of his enemies.

The last of the retinue entered the precincts of
al-Qal’at Al-Hamra
. Faraj followed the Sultan and Crown Prince, descending stairs winding from the citadel to an underground passage, flanked by bodyguards. The passageway led under the citadel to an exit in the courtyard. From there, stairs offered an approach to the recesses of the throne room.

When the Sultan and his entourage mounted the stairs, guards patrolling the area bowed in reverent silence. One soldier opened the door and everyone, except the Sultan, hung back. The women of his household gazed at them in surprise, with cries of alarm.

The ladies sat concealed from view behind their
purdah
, a latticed screen. The Sultan’s two remaining wives, the Sultanas Hamda and Qamar, and his
kadin
Lateefah greeted him first.

Faraj relied on the Sultan’s previous descriptions to identify each woman now. Sultana Hamda smoothed her dark blue, brocaded robes and smeared a thick berry stain on her thin lips, before she acknowledged her husband. Faraj did not doubt she was as vain as the Sultan had once remarked. Then she reached for a water pipe filled with opium. She drew deeply upon the pipe, inhaling the sickly sweet scent of the poppy. Faraj sneered and thought it a disgusting habit.

Hamda’s counterpart Sultana Qamar sat with her thin hands in her lap, delicate golden brows flaring over her doe-like, brown eyes. She offered her husband a shy glance, which made Faraj wonder how she could be so reticent before a man whom she had been married to for more than twenty years. Her fair skin glowed and a faint scent of lemon drifted from the folds of her
jubba
.

The
kadin
Lateefah sat beside Sultana Qamar. Although no longer in the first blush of youth, she remained the favorite, the most honored of the Sultan’s concubines. She offered him a coquettish smile. It seemed foolish from a woman who was perhaps only a few years older than the Crown Prince was. Her heart-shaped face, full, stained lips and honey-brown complexion held the Sultan enthralled before he moved on. His daughter, Maryam the widow, also offered him a winsome smile before she lined her gray eyes with kohl. Faraj suspected the Sultan returned her welcoming gesture with feigned pleasure. Only this morning, he had complained to anyone who would listen about her excessive spending on silks and damasks at the market. However, if his plans succeeded, his spendthrift daughter would soon be gone from Gharnatah.

With the Sultan’s permission, his retinue passed beyond the
purdah,
eyes averted from the women. Sycophants comprised of Gharnatah’s wealthy elite filled the rest of the room, whispering their latest intrigues in hushed tones. When the Sultan appeared without warning at the forefront of the throne room, the din of murmurs died.

To the left stood his counselors, who advised him upon all political and religious matters. Most of them were sons of non-nobility who had earned the right to become permanent fixtures of the court by their intellectual prowess. The Crown Prince preceded Faraj into the room, while the Sultan’s bodyguards fanned out along the walls.

The Marinid delegation stood just outside the open brass and oak doors, waiting while the aged court herald shuffled forward. “In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, bear witness and render homage to the presence of the Appointed of Allah. He, who is like the mighty and invincible lion in times of war and like the generous water giving life to the dry earth in times of peace. His great deeds shine brilliantly for all to see. The happiness of men and the jubilation of women precede his coming. He is
al-Ghalib bi-llah,
the Sultan Muhammad ibn al-Ahmar ibn Yusuf ibn Nasr. Give praise to Allah for his justice. Give praise to Allah for his peace. By the blessings of Allah, know there is none but Allah and the Prophet, may peace be upon him, is His messenger.
Amin
.”

Suppressing a yawn, the Sultan sank into the chair behind him. Faraj stifled a laugh, but the Crown Prince glared at him.

Umar approached, leading his Marinid delegation. He was a broad-chested man of Nubian stock, heavily built with bowed legs. His moon-shaped face with its heavy jowls reflected a rich diet. His eyes were small dots. It seemed as though he might be squinting. “Peace be with you, the appointed of God, exalted Sultan of Gharnatah. I greet you in the name of my noble master, Sultan Abu Yusuf Ya’qub al-Marini, the Commander of the Believers and the Anointed of God. My master sends greetings and well wishes for your continued prosperity, and gifts to honor your household.”

Faraj smiled. This military man had the smooth tongue of a diplomat, too. Umar beckoned slaves, who presented tokens of leather, precious metals, spices and silks. The Sultan showed the appropriate interest and appreciation, but Faraj guessed he did not care.

Umar stated, “There is one more gift, but it is a delight meant only for the Sultan.”

The Sultan tugged hair on his gray beard, while Faraj leaned toward the Crown Prince. “It must be a woman. At seventy-five years old, our master needs a pleasure slave like he needs another wife to annoy and harass him.”

Though he chuckled, the Crown Prince stared at him without saying a word. Then Faraj remembered - his uncle never complained about any of his wives, except for the Crown Prince’s late mother, Muna. Embarrassed, Faraj cleared his throat and looked ahead.

The Sultan stood, his legs shaking a little with the effort. His son took a step forward, earning him a disapproving glare. Then the Sultan said, “The court shall withdraw. Only my guard, the Marinid commander, my heir and Prince Faraj may remain.”