Sultana (12 page)

Faraj’s negotiation with the Castillans lasted long into the evening, during which their hosts never offered refreshment. Not that he would have accepted anything lest they sought to poison him. Hours later, the two sovereigns signed a new treaty before the Sultan and his retinue withdrew.

While Faraj adjusted the bridle on his horse, the Crown Prince argued with his father. “For two hundred and fifty thousand Castillan gold pieces, you have submitted to these dogs again.”

The Sultan grinned. “I have bought peace for my people and ensured fair dealings between the Ashqilula and me.”

“But Alfonso’s forced you to put off hostilities with the Ashqilula for a year….”

“…And thereby spared my people the devastating consequences of a civil war, while giving me time to persuade the Marinids. Umar may have disappointed me, but the Ashqilula shall not. They shall continue their crusade against me. I must be vigilant if I am to defeat them.”

“Father, when the King doesn’t withdraw his support of the Ashqilula, what recourse remains?”

“If the Castillans actually keep their word, my enemies shall not have the powerful backing of the Christians. If the Castillans have lied….”

The Crown Prince stared at him expectantly, but the Sultanchuckled. “Such concerns are the Sultan’s own. You are not Sultan yet, my son.”

The Crown Prince growled low in his throat and mounted his horse, as the Sultan did the same.

He maneuvered his bay stallion next to Faraj’s horse. “You did well. I have further use for you.”

He led the way home, while Faraj pondered the meaning of that inscrutable statement.

Chapter 8

The Walls of Malaka

Prince Faraj

Malaka, al-Andalus: Dhu al-Hijja 665 AH - Muharram 666 AH (Malaga, Andalusia: September - October AD 1267)

Faraj shielded his eyes with a hand, as the Sultan ordered the advance slowed on the outskirts of Malaka. Olive groves stretched toward the walls of the city. Faraj inhaled the long-remembered scent from his childhood.

He gritted his teeth as a memory of the chieftain Abu Muhammad blazed in his mind. He had first seen him at Gharnatah upon his arrival as a bloodied and frightened boy, one of five refugees escaping the carnage at Malaka. Abu Muhammad, only son of the Sultan’s sister, Princess Faridah, strongly resembled his maternal uncle. The hawkish nose and brown-gray eyes were the same. The Ashqilula chieftain had also come to Gharnatah with many supporters and received the honor of Malaka. He had taken Faraj’s birthright.

Faraj had never returned home since that terrible night. Yet, Malaka remained as unchanged as in his thoughts. The craggy landscape rose and fell in a series of undulating brown hills. Under the sapphire skies in his memories, the sandstone walls of the castle and the citadel of
Al-Jabal Faro
glowed atop two promontories. Golden beaches fanned out from the base of the slope and greeted the azure-colored waters of the sea. All of it belonged to the Ashqilula now.

A mild wind from the sea and rough chainmail chaffed his skin where his tunic did not cover flesh. Despite the sudden chill, perspiration trickled under his helmet and stung his eyes. A cotton tunic clung to his back under the leather coat and chainmail.

No activity occurred at the city walls. The same flat, red-roofed houses as he remembered rose on steep slopes behind the bastions. To the south, the land, thick with more olive groves and almond trees stretched toward the sea. On the highest promontory jutting from the city center, its eastern hillock supported
Al-Jabal Faro
, still towering under the heavens. He had played at the base of its inner walls as a child, darting between pine and eucalyptus trees from the servants who scrambled to catch him. More than ten years had passed since he stood in this place. Now, he had returned with his uncle’s army to destroy it.

When the Crown Prince glanced at him, he ducked his gaze. He could not afford for anyone to guess at the conflict brewing inside of him. In his heart, this was his city. It would always remain so, even if his father’s murderers had tainted memories of it.

The Sultan had come to wrest it from Ashqilula control, after learning that they had sought separate promises of Castillan and Marinid aid. He intended to eliminate them before any help materialized.

It was a dangerous gambit. Faraj’s father Ismail had strengthened the ramparts of his city before he died. Surely, the Ashqilula had improved upon those foundations in the months since the civil war started.

The Crown Prince snarled at him. “Well, what more can you tell us of this city?”

Faraj returned his intent gaze. “I have told you everything I know of its defenses from when I was a child. Surely, you don’t believe the Ashqilula are unprepared for this assault.”

His gaze swept over the Sultan’s army at their backs, nearly seven thousand strong. “They won’t give up the city so easily.”

The Crown Prince grinned and drew his scimitar, raising it above his head. Sunlight gleamed off the edge of the blade. “I hope not. I owe Abu Muhammad for the death of my wife. A cut for a cut.”

His slashing weapon whistled through the air. The detachment of warriors under his command clanked their swords against rounded shields. Their rousing cry spread across the plain.

Inside the city, a mirroring cry echoed, but not the sounds of jubilation. Screams of panic vied with the din of the Sultan’s army. Faraj could only imagine how his father’s people had reacted to the appearance of thousands of Nasrid warriors.

Then the commanders of Gharnatah’s army shouted, “The gates! Look to the gates!”

Faraj could not see what brought shouts of triumphto the various ranks. The glare of the sun, the noonday haze and sweat almost blinded him. He pushed back his mailed hood roughly and wiped his face.

The flag bearing the colors of the Ashqilula lowered from sight. Soon the Nasrid flag unfurled on the battlements, proclaiming the surrender of the city. Faraj could hardly believe his eyes. He reeled in the saddle and the horse shied under his sudden movement. He glanced in the direction of the Sultan, mired in the midst of his commanders. It seemed that without a ram brought to bear against a gate or even one shot of an arrow, he had already won the contest. Without caution, the Sultan urged his horse toward the gates in a circle of his commanders.

As he and the Crown Prince approached to within a short distance from the ramparts, a volley of flaming arrows shot over the walls of Malaka, barely missing his position. His stallion snorted and panicked.  

Faraj spurred his horse. He bored through the ranks of mounted men and reached the Sultan’s side. The Sultan cursed wildly. In his euphoria, he had removed his mail mittens and helmet. Now, he struggled with them. Faraj shook his head at such carelessness and drew his sword. His shield locked tightly with those of his companions. The commandersprotected their furious leader. Three bodies catapulted over the wall, bouncing and crashing to the earth below. One figure stirred and tried to stand, but arrows sliced through the air and pinned the body to the ground, never to rise again. Whoever might have betrayed the Ashqilula and helped the Nasrids was now dead.

The defenders and besiegers of Malaka traded volleys. Soon, ssiege weapons battered the stout masonry. The commanders ordered towers braced against the walls. Infantrymen tried to scale the heights, with the defenders raining arrows down upon them. A tower caught ablaze. Its screaming occupants tumbled to the ground. The Sultan emerged from his protective cocoon and urged his army onward. He ordered thebattering ram brought up against the northernmost gate.

From the west, dust clouds rose in the distance. Faraj turned in the saddle. His jaw dropped and he jerked the reins of his mount. A black swarm of riders on light mounts rumbled across the plain. He gaped in stunned silence as they closed the distance, pressing the Nasrids between them and the walls of Malaka. The land trembled under pounding hooves.  

Archers on the walls fired down on the heads of the Nasrid soldiers. Volley after volley flew from Malaka’s ramparts, piercing armor and flesh, man and beast. Gharnati crossbowmen had weapons within range and answered the Ashqilula volleys. Deadlier than an arrow, the bolts from Moorish crossbows also had a longer scope. The defenders vaulted over the walls in their death throes, but more in the front ranks of the Sultan’s army fell.

The riders bearing down on them unleashed arrows and crashed into the warriors at the vanguard. The Sultan’s commanders berated their men, cursing and driving them into formation.

Having weakened their attackers at the forefront, forces inside Malaka sallied forth from the city gates. Hemmed in on both sides, the Nasrid crossbowmen fired wildly, bringing down horses and riders but also many among their company. Battle drums vied with the screams of dying men and horses, as metal and flesh came together.

Faraj faced the warriors who rode out. His mind raced with lessons. Memory told him that a sharp stab to a horse’s chest or neck would bring the animal and its rider to the ground. He threw his javelin and embedded it in a horse’s belly, then drew his scimitar, slashing at the rider who had fallen but scrambled to his feet. Faraj stabbed him through the heart, twisted the blade, and yanked it free. An almost primeval scream echoed from the man’s throat before he reeled back from the fatal blow. Faraj leaned forward and thrust his feet into the stirrups, retrieving his javelin. All around him, the metallic smell of blood permeated the thick air. The men of the Sultan’s army fought desperately for their lives. He had lost sight of the Sultan in the swirling ranks.

A horn blared through Nasrids ranks. Across the plains, the Crown Prince shouted until he sounded hoarse. “Retreat! Retreat! Flee for your lives.”

Drummers rallied the Gharnati forces. Faraj’s heart sank but he rushed headlong with the charge back to Gharnatah.

In the first week of a new year, Faraj sat brooding on the steps of the southern terrace at his house. He had not spoken to anyone in the aftermath of the failure at Malaka, especially the Sultan, whose hatred for the Ashqilula knew no bounds. Faraj had even more reason to regret the ill-starred venture than his master did. He deserved Malaka. Yet, he had not helped defeat those who held it. The knowledge of his failure and a continuing lack of action gnawed at him.  

Slaves interrupted the haze of his reverie, clanging ceramics on the low table beside him. When he snapped at them, they scurried like frightened rats. An idle hour later, flies buzzed noisily over a platter of cold, uneaten flatbread and boiled eggs.

Marzuq approached with a rolled parchment. “The Sultan summons you.”

Faraj growled at his steward, “What does he want? I’m not in the mood!”

Marzuq bowed low. “You cannot refuse, master.”

Faraj waved his steward away, knowing the man was right. When he was alone again, he muttered a curse under his breath and left the house. His half-brother Muhammad ibn Ismail awaited him at the gate. Though they resembled each other and their father, Faraj thought there was no one else in the world who was more different from him, than his brother.

Both had lost their mothers on the same night, except the mercenaries had taken Muhammad’s mother with them. Muhammad could hope she was still alive while Faraj relived the final fate of his mother every night.

“What are you doing here, Muhammad?”

His half-brother looked at him with eyes that mirrored their father’s own. Everything about him reminded Faraj of their father, but he could never forget that Muhammad’s mother has been his mother’s rival.

“I heard what happened, Faraj. The entire court knows. I wished to see how you fared.”

Faraj chuckled and shoved past him. “I think it is too late for brotherly concern.”

Muhammad grabbed his arm. “How can you quarrel with me eternally over an issue not of my making? It is not my fault our father loved my mother and yours equally.”

Faraj shrugged off his hand. “You shall never mention my mother again! Don’t speak of her in the same breath as your mother. You’re the son of a slave. I’m the heir.”

“So you keep reminding me. Do you think I’ve forgotten? And where is your inheritance, brother? Have you regained your birthright? Or is it still in the hands of Abu Muhammad of Malaka?” He shook his head, dark waves of hair cascading over his eyes. “One day, this rivalry between us must end, but I see it shall not be today. I should have known better than to think you would welcome my comfort. I shall never understand what our uncle was thinking when he wed you with his granddaughter.”

“You don’t have to understand it, only accept it.”

Chapter 9

The Bargain

Prince Faraj

Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Sha’ban 665 AH (Granada, Andalusia: May AD 1268)

One week before Faraj’s nineteenth birthday, he joined the royal hunt at the height of spring. The Sultan’s sons and their families gathered within the southern precinct of the royal
madina
. Slaves accompanied the hunters, prized hawks and peregrines held tightly with jesses. Fatima stood at her father’s side, while he bent on one knee and embraced the girls surrounding him.

Stiff-backed, Faraj bowed before the royal heir and his family. Fatima glanced at him, her gaze expectant. He mumbled a greeting for her. A spark of anger leapt in the girl’s gaze. One of her sisters whispered something in her ear. She offered him a curt nod.

His lips pressed tightly together, he leapt on his horse and stared straight ahead. She turned away, and spoke with her sisters. More than a year after their marriage, he and his child bride shared no affinity for each other. Try as he might, he could not put aside his reticence. Each time he looked at her, he remembered the child whimpering in his arms, crying out for her murdered mother. He shied away from his own painful memories evoked by her suffering.