Sultana (13 page)

His uncle bore the blame for all their misery. The Sultan had forced his hand, bound him in this dangerous union, which threatened his fortunes and safety. It was an enticing trap, baited with the promise of royal favor and riches beyond expectation, but it had already claimed the life of Fatima’s mother. He would not become the next victim.

He returned his attention to the Crown Prince, who admonished his children. “Be mindful of your governess.”

Fatima replied. “Father, come home to us soon.”

Faraj sneered at her blind, childish devotion. How could she love a man who had inspired such hatred in his own wife that she had betrayed him? Fatima’s youthfulness prevented her from comprehending the magnitude of her grandfather’s schemes, but Faraj did not enjoy such merciful bliss. His bride remained an innocent, ignorant child. He welcomed, yet dreaded the day her father or grandfather’s actions shattered her illusions. He had suffered cruelly from life’s harsh lessons and in truth, he did not wish that kind of pain upon anyone, not even the little girl his uncle had forced on him.

The Sultan mounted his horse and waved a salute for three women in white garments, his wives and
kadin
. Then he ordered the departure of the hunting party.

They exited the southwestern gate, their mounts ambling along the cobblestones. The Crown Prince and his younger brothers followed their father. Against his choice, Faraj rode beside his half-brother. He pointedly ignored Muhammad.

The searing mid-morning sun tracked their progress down the slopes of the Sabika hill. They entered the precincts of the
madina
, bustling with activity. The royal guards cleared the route, while slaves brought up the rear with hunting birds and provisions. The denizens of Gharnatah waved and bowed. The Sultan accepted their acclaim with brisk nods.

The riders turned south where they anticipated good hunting. They camped near the river Xenil, a suitable site for its fresh water supply. Luck eluded Faraj on the first day. His peregrine snared only a meager grouse. Later, he listened with silent envy as his half-brother recounted how his hawk had brought down four fowl. By evening, the men feasted on roasted and stewed game, with flatbread, cheese, and fruits from their provisions.

The next morning, Faraj left the encampment and relieved himself, before performing the prayer ablutions. When he returned, the Sultan and his heir sat on the ground outside the Sultan’s tent, speaking with a messenger.

Faraj joined his half-brother beside the fire. “What has happened?”

Muhammad looked up, dark, wavy hair like their father’s own falling over his eyes. “A rider came in but a moment ago. We must wait.”

Across the camp, the Crown Prince flailed his hands, his face a dark mask of fury. The Sultan demanded silence before addressing the messenger again.

Muhammad chuckled low and scratched his scraggly beard. “Look at you, so intent on their schemes. Life at court suits you. You vie for the Sultan’s favor with the best of them.”

 “Is it envy I see in your eyes? Are you jealous of what I have?”

“You see pity. I could never be jealous of you. I do not share your ambitions. My pity is not for you, but for your wife. She cannot know the sort of man our uncle has united her with and I pray you never disappoint her.”

“My future is not your concern. Think of your own.”

When he stood, Muhammad grasped his arm. “You shall never have Malaka. It is lost to us forever. The Ashqilula have it and they shall never give it up.”

“We’ll see.” Faraj shrugged off his grip.

When the messenger left, the Sultan beckoned all his relations, who joined him around the campfire.

He said, “We have had strange tidings this morning. Doñ Nuño Gonzalez de Lara has arrived at the frontier. He is one of King Alfonso’s most trusted Castillan commanders and advisors. He seeks to parlay with me. He shall join us here. After prayer and the morning meal, I require the presence of my heir and Prince Faraj, who can translate. The rest of you may go.”

The royal princes and Faraj’s half-brother scowled in his direction, but he shrugged. Why should they be angry with him, when his uncle could do whatever he wanted, including commanding their stay or departure?

The Sultan’s third son, Prince Nasr asked, “Honorable father, who is this Castillan who thinks himself worthy of meeting with you?”

His father stared into the fire. When he spoke, it seemed he imagined another time and place. “You should remember him from our negotiations with the Castillans at al-Qal’at ibn Zaide two years ago. I first met him in battle during the siege at Ishbiliya. He is the master of Istija now, which the Castillans call Ecija. I have fought against him, too. He conquered my ancestral home at Aryuna.”

“For this and more, he should die!” The Crown Prince drew his
khanjar
and angrily drove the dagger into the ground.

Murmurs of assent followed from his brothers.

The Sultan called for silence. He stared hard across the fire at his heir. “In life, I’ve borne many troublesome burdens. A Sultan must think of his people first, before his own desires. Although my hatred of the Castillans and Doñ Nuño Gonzalez has great cause, I shall bargain with him, if only to know whether his words may benefit me. Now, I demand an oath from each of you. Swear by the blessed name of the Prophet, may peace be upon him, no one shall harm the Castillan commander.”

He stared at each man sternly. Prince Nasr first swore the oath, albeit grudgingly. Faraj followed, as did others, last among them the Crown Prince. Afterward, when he met his father’s eyes, something interminable passed between them. Faraj wondered at the new machinations each might be plotting. Both had proven they could be cunning and unpredictable, even dangerous.

The Castillan commander and his company arrived at the encampment the next morning. The Sultan’s bodyguards remained, joined by a detachment of forty soldiers from the fortress of
al-Quasaba
. The Sultan and Crown Prince waited inside the tent, while Faraj greeted the arrivals.

Doñ Nuño Gonzalez de Lara rode into the camp at the head of his men. He dismounted, as did the three others who directly followed him. Faraj approached and bowed, introducing himself and greeting them in the name of his master in Castillan. The inflections of the Castillan language and the rapidity of their exchange required dogged concentration.

“Where is your King?” Doñ Nuño asked impatiently.

“My master awaits you in his tent. Please follow me.”

He led the men into the shelter of dried animal skins dyed green and black. The Sultan and his son sat in the recesses, while the royal guard lined the walls. After the men exchanged greetings, Faraj continued his role as interpreter.

The Sultan leaned forward. “You have brought many men to Gharnatah, Doñ Nuño Gonzalez, yet you claim you wish to speak in peace. Why should I hear what you have to say?” He gestured for Faraj to translate.

“I would answer, but I request we speak directly,” Doñ Nuño replied in Arabic. “We do not need an interpreter. My news is important, I assure you.”

“Such remains to be seen.”

“I would not have made the journey otherwise. I have always known you to be a man of excellent reasoning, great Sultan. I pray you shall permit me to speak to you with complete candor and privacy.”

“While I might agree to speak with you, I can never agree to dismiss my guards.” The Sultan chewed a handful of dates from the low table beside him. Pointedly, he offered no hospitality to the commander.

Doñ Nuño Gonzalez frowned. “Your Sultanate is the only power in the peninsula that can withstand Castilla-Leon. There are others who would join me in rebellion against the Crown.”

The Sultan asked, “To what end?”

“The King had denied me several profitable estates, which I wish restored to my family and if you would aid us….”

“Ah, so it is coin you’re after. How can I be sure this meeting is not an elaborate ruse to entrap me? You must know I have concluded another treaty with your King only a year ago.”

“Great Sultan, let me prove my worth. I know the exact number of forces under the command of your enemies. I can give you information your spies would never have, such as the Ashqilula’s ability to withstand siege, where their vulnerabilities lie and the number of Christian knights in their retinues.”

“Indeed, you could tell me all about the knights, for you led them. Are you not the commander of the Christian knights who’ve reinforced the Ashqilula territories?”

“I have their loyalty. If I command it, no Castillan warrior shall remain in the influence of your enemies.”

The Sultan did not reply. He slowly twirled wisps of hair in his beard.

Then Doñ Nuño added, “If you agreed to my request, I would offer you these same men to rid yourself of the Ashqilula.”

The Crown Prince frowned, his dark eyebrows knitted together. The Sultan threw back his head and laughed, his voice filling the tent with a rich tone. Doñ Nuño smiled and chuckled. Faraj shook his head, unable to believe the audacity of Doñ Nuño. He doubted the Sultan and his guest were laughing for the same reason.

His uncle said, “You would offer me the very same Castillan knights to thwart the Ashqilula as your King offered to the Ashqilula to undermine me?”

“I assure you, the King’s present behavior has forced me to this course.”

Faraj’s heart thrummed inside his chest. His uncle’s capricious nature warned of danger. Would the Sultan slaughter the Castillans now for their daring?

Instead, the Sultan said, “I shall consider it. You and your company may remain at our campsite until I have made my decision.”

Faraj heaved a sigh. Who could understand the myriad ways in which his uncle’s mind worked? It was useless to speculate.

Doñ Nuño continued, “We await your command.”

When he exited the tent, the Sultan turned to Faraj. “What’s your opinion of him?”

“He is…complicated, as was his tale,” he cautiously replied.

The Crown Prince added. “He is a greedy, disloyal man. Alfonso is welcome to him.”

His father nodded. “I agree.”

The Crown Prince grinned, his smile admiring. “If you don’t trust him, then surely you’ve decided not to aid him? Let me kill him, Father. My blade would pierce the dog’s heart and send him to the Christian hell where he belongs.”

The Sultan said, “Your
khanjar
shall remain sheathed. I shall aid him, for my own interests. Doñ Nuño is one of the best military strategists in Castilla-Leon. As he uses me to pester Alfonso, so I shall use Doñ Nuño against the Ashqilula and the Castillans. Before I give him one gold
dinar
, he shall give me all the logistical and tactical information I need to defeat my enemies on both fronts.”

The Crown Prince’s expression lapsed into a troubled scowl. Faraj kept his silence, though he feared these intrigues were becoming too dangerous.

He withdrew to his cool tent in the lingering heat of evening. At the entrance, a slave with a glistening, baldpate offered him a rolled parchment.

“Forgive me for disturbing you. I have a message for your eyes alone.”

Faraj looked over his shoulder toward the Sultan’s tent. Satisfied no one watched him, he broke the hardened, red wax seal on the scroll. He committed the Castillan words to memory and then tossed the parchment into the small fire at the center of the encampment. Flames devoured it entirely.

He returned to the slave. “Does the Sultan know I have received a missive?”

“No, my prince, I was told to bring the message in secret.”

Faraj tapped the hilt of his dagger with a thumb. “Who approached you with it?”

The slave swallowed. “One of the Christians gave it to me. My prince, I’m a loyal servant of Gharnatah, please don’t harm me.”

Faraj ducked inside the tent, grasped his satchel and withdrew a small pouch of
dirhams
. He returned outside. The silver coins jangled as he pressed them into the slave’s hand. “See that you forget about the message.”

Following the instructions of the missive, he left the encampment. A circuitous route took him to a clearing at the base of the Sabika hill. Juniper trees shadowed him. From behind a copse, Doñ Nuño Gonzalez de Lara stepped out, alone.

“I thank you for coming, worthy prince. It’s an honor to speak with you.”

Faraj rolled his eyes at the attempt at pleasantries and switched to the Castilian language. He despaired of listening to Doñ Nuño speak Arabic, as though he was Moorish. He could not be more different.

“My lord de Lara, my master does not know I’m here, but if we tarry for long, I shall be missed.”

“Then, I shall keep you no longer than necessary. I am aware of your blood ties to the King of Granada, how he raised you from boyhood. He has been like a father to you. I would have you ease the…ill feelings between your uncle and me. As you may know, we fought each other many years ago at Arjona. The Sultan doesn’t trust me.”

“He has his reasons.”

“You have great influence with your uncle, perhaps enough to make him see beyond those reasons.”

“You want him to war with you against Castilla-Leon. Why should he risk it?”

“Sway your uncle’s decision in my favor. Allow me to influence the opinions you offer your master, and I would reward you well.”

“Any boon you might give is still no guarantee my uncle shall listen to me.”

“Surely, you underestimate your skills and my resources. Name anything you want. You can have it, if you would look favorably on my claim.”

“You can’t give me what I want. You waste your time and mine. I bid you both good-day and the peace of God be with you.”

As he turned to go, Doñ Nuño called out, “If you were able to influence your master, the Ashqilula might release their hold on your ancestral home at Malaga.”

When Faraj continued undeterred, the Castillan added, “Your father built a mighty fortress, which the Ashqilula have improved upon. With my help, perhaps your uncle could retake the city. Indeed, the Ashqilula would never have held it in the first place, except by their treachery.”