Sultana (18 page)

He donned a pair of red leather traveling boots and faced the imam again. The religious leader bowed low, touching his forehead to the ground. At the Sultan’s gesture, his companions entered the throne room behind the lattice
purdah
where the women of the court waited. During the old Sultan’s reign, his wives had attended daily court proceedings, sometimes with his
kadin
. Now, the newest generation of Sultanas joined them, Fatima and her sisters.

The girls greeted their father. Fatima stood closest to him, resplendent in a gold brocade
khil’a
, her warm smile discernible through the gauzy yellow veil covering her face. Faraj drank in the sight of her.

“May God be with you this day and forever, Father,” she whispered.

“May he be with us all, my child,” her father replied.

The royal women took their seats on plump cushions. A lull descended in the room. Sultana Qamar tugged at Sultana Hamda, who regarded her with a narrowed gaze.

“Hamda, you must remove yourself from the forefront. The position of honor belongs to Sultana Fatima, since she is the eldest female of the current Sultan’s harem.”

Sultana Hamda frowned and in a huff, she left her seat with obvious reluctance and took up her opium pipe again. She faded in a haze of sickly sweet smoke. Fatima hesitated but took her place, her head held high. Pride in her grace and beauty suffused Faraj.

The court herald Ibn Ali recited the profession of faith. Then he listed the new Sultan’s titles and praised him to the heavens, in much the same manner as he used to do for the old Sultan. Faraj could not help but chuckle, when his master yawned at the end of the oration - it was just what his father would have done.

The new ruler entered the throne room. At his gesture, Faraj joined his counselors on the left of the room. The guards fanned out. Conversations among the courtiers, who were dressed in their finest robes of state, ended abruptly. The Castillan lords were among them, Doñ Nuño Gonzalez de Lara at the forefront. As the herald proclaimed him, the Crown Prince surrendered his given name of Abu Abdallah Muhammad and claimed the regal title of Sultan Muhammad II of Gharnatah evermore.

Despite the happy moment, filled with cheers and merriment, Faraj could not wholeheartedly enjoy it. The Castillan presence at such a grand occasion infuriated him. He could never forget that Doñ Nuño’s family had aided the Ashqilula, which resulted in tragic deaths and painful losses for him. He silently vowed, one day, Doñ Nuño would pay the debts incurred by his father’s treachery with his blood. Faraj would have his revenge against all who had conspired to rob him of the bright future he once envisioned, first Doñ Nuño and then, Abu Muhammad of Ashqilula.

Later in the evening, Faraj dined with the Sultan, while he and the chief eunuch, Hasan, discussed the old ruler’s plans for the women belonging to the old ruler.

Hasan hefted his bovine bulk off the floor where he had been prostrate. At the Sultan’s gesture, he unrolled a sheet of parchment from which he read. “There are thirty
jawari
who were the slaves of your late father, my Sultan. The women are from Abyssinia and Nubia, Ionia and Salonica, Genoa and Corsica, Provençal France, Castilla-Leon and Galicia. The eldest is in her mid-forties approximately and the youngest is perhaps nineteen, at most. The senior women, of whom there are nine, might make suitable rewards for loyal chieftains, my Sultan.”

Muhammad II scratched his dark beard. “What do you suggest I do with the others?”

Hasan’s moon-shaped, pale face colored pink. “Sell them, my Sultan. You would gain favorably, for they are well-trained concubines, skilled in the arts of pleasure. The least among them would fetch a minimum of a thousand
dinars
, more if sold through an exclusive slave broker.”

The Sultan mulled over the suggestion, a finger tapping at his temple. “Very well, arrange for the sale of the older ones. Of the others, decide which ones would be best suited to private or public auction.”

Hasan bandied the names of prospective merchants and counted their number on his beefy fingers, before his master suddenly interrupted. “You mentioned there are women from Galicia among the slaves. Is there a
jarya
with a heart-shaped face, unblemished skin and pale eyes?”

Faraj frowned. How had the Sultan ever seen any of his late father’s women to describe one so perfectly? It was unlawful for one man to see another’s women unveiled.

Hasan replied, “Yes, master, that’s the youngest. Her name is Nur al-Sabah.”

The name sounded familiar but Faraj could not place where he had first heard it.

Hasan added, “Since Umar of the clan Mahalli gave this girl to your father, she has become the most highly prized among your father’s slaves. Not only shall she fetch the largest sum, for her beauty, musical talent and intelligence are exquisite assets, but also she remains a virgin. Your late father never bedded her.”

Faraj nodded, understanding Hasan referred to the girl the Sultan had coveted seven years ago, when he was Crown Prince. Had he truly remembered her after all this time? Could one woman be so remarkable that after many years, thoughts of her lingered in a man’s thoughts? Suddenly, an image of Fatima at her father’s coronation flashed in his mind. He shook his head and cleared his thoughts, concentrating on the moment.

Muhammad II said, “I want the Galician for myself. Arrange this before you consider the sale of other concubines.”

Hasan protested, “But, she belonged to your late father.”

The Sultan silenced him with a look. “She is mine. Bring her to me tonight, after
Salat al-Isha
.”

Princess Fatima

In the glimmer of midday, Fatima dressed in a cloak trimmed with ermine to turn back the cold. She strolled through the grounds between the palace complexes. Her father had startedseveral building projects in the first week of his reign, repairing the roofs and porticos of Grandfather’s palace, which had suffered from years of rain damage. Her father planned to enlarge his residence, with additional apartments for future use. As the widowed monarch of the last bastion of Islam in the peninsula, surely other Muslim rulers would look to him with an eye for a political match, offering their daughters to seal an alliance.

Even knowing this, Fatimawas unprepared for the sight of workmen demolishing the façade of the western wing, part of which included her mother’s oratory. Masons wielded crowbars and hammers against the stucco walls. They attacked the stylized foliage motifs incised in the early days of her grandfather’s reign. Red, black and green glazed tiles crumbled into shards. Dust billowed and covered everything with a thin film, even the blue and violet flowers of the rosemary bushes.

Hasan emerged from a nearby building, which was still intact. The chief eunuch spoke with one of the workers, likely the foreman. Fatima ran to them, interrupting theirconversation.

“Why are they destroying my mother’s sanctuary?” She pointed to the workmen.

Hasan shouted above the din, wheezing with the effort. “My Sultana, you shouldn’t be here in this noisy, dirty place.”

“I don’t care! Tell me what’s happening here.”

“Your father has ordered the destruction of the entire western wing of the palace, my Sultana. Surely you were aware of his plan?”

“I know about the remodeling, but I did not know it would occur at the expense of the rooms here! Hasan, the west wing contains Princess Aisha’s oratory and her private baths. Father cannot tear down the prayer room…it was her sanctuary.”

“He is Sultan, he can do anything.”

Fatima shook her head. Tears blurred her vision as she ran away. How could he do such a thing?

Returning to the harem, she stumbled between rows of myrtle trees at the entrance, and rounded a pool filled with fish. The olive wood doors of her father’s apartments loomed across the garden courtyard.

She approached the entryway. “Open this door.”

The guard nearest to her shook his head and bent on one knee, mumbling something about not disturbing the Sultan and a plea for forgiveness.

She pounded against the heavy wood. “Open the door. Father! Open the door!”

With each passing minute, determination and anger grew until she struck the door in a fury. She nearly fell forward when the portal opened suddenly. Her father stood in the doorway, his
qamis
wrinkled and barely tucked into his trousers.

“Fatima, what is the matter?”

She stared beyond him into the room. An exquisite woman sat in the center of his bed, a damask cover hiding most of her form, but for her shoulders and one bare leg draped over the edge of the bed. Golden hair cascaded down her back, shimmering against the crimson coverlet.

“For her…for her you are destroying my mother’s sanctuary?”

“Fatima, I do not understand your behavior, but I demand an explanation.”

“I demand one as well! Do you destroy my mother’s sanctuary for a slave?”

He grabbed her wrists, jerked her inside the room and closed the door firmly.

She wrenched from his grasp. “Does she bring you so much pleasure that she has made you forget my mother? I knew when you became Sultan, part of you would be lost to us, but I did not expect my siblings and me would have to share you with some…with this whore!”

He gripped Fatima’s arms. “Do not dare speak of Nur al-Sabah that way!”

Wrapped in the coverlet, the concubine came to his side and placed a hand on his forearm. With this simple gesture, she compelled his full attention.

“Please let her go,” she whispered. “She is your daughter and you love her. Do not do something you shall regret.”

Fatima turned on her as soon as he released her. “I don’t want your help, you….”

“Fatima, get out of my sight before you say more to anger me!” Her father’svoice thundered through the room. “I’ve had enough of your tantrums today. You’re a disgrace.”

“But Father, she….”

“I said leave now, Fatima! Go, or I shall order my guards to put you out!”

He drew the woman to his side and cocooned her in his embrace. Heart hammering in her chest, Fatima opened the olive doors and stumbled into the courtyard. Tears blinded her and she broke into a run, leaving the harem behind. Suddenly, she slammed into hard, lean muscles. She collapsed on to cool marble stone.

“By the Prophet…Fatima, what is the matter?”

Faraj hovered over her. Without another word, he lifted and carried her trembling form. She buried her face in his garments, turning away from those who milled about the precincts, pointing and whispering. Then a wooden door creaked and warmth enveloped her. He sat down and kept his grip on her. She laid her head on his shoulder. His hand massaged her back.

“Relax, draw deep breaths. It’s over. You’re safe now.”

His soothing voice calmed her. When she regained her composure and tried to rise, his grip did not ease. Embarrassed, she struggled against his hold.

“Fatima, stop. I would never hurt you.”

“It is unseemly for you to hold me in this manner. Someone might see us.”

“You are my wife. I may hold you as I please. Besides, we are in my house.”

She stared at him incredulous. “You brought me to your house? Why?”

“I was on my way to meet your father. I did not think. I acted out of concern for you.”

The intimacy of his embrace startled her, but also brought a sense of safety. Only her father had ever made her feel so secure. Her eyes watered again, but Faraj cradled her close. She cried without restraint, her face buried in the curve of his neck. He said nothing until she stopped shaking.

Then he tugged aside her veil and wiped at her cheeks with a white cotton kerchief. “Tell me what happened.”

Her words tumbled free at his gentle coaxing. She fought against the tightness in her throat. When she finished, he heaved a long sigh.

“In my youth, my father Ismail had a favored concubine, Butayna. She was a Christian captured at Ishbiliya when the Castillans took the city from the Hud. She was the mother of my half-brother, Muhammad. My father loved my mother Leila but he also loved the
kadin
. It was a love I could not understand or accept and because of it, I grew to resent her place in my father’s life and my father’s love for my brother. Then came the night when my brother and I lost our mothers, mine to a suicide and his to the mercenaries who destroyed our home at Malaka. When I think of that time, I remember the fear in Butayna’s eyes most.”

She cleared her throat. “I know the story of your family’s betrayal. I never thought you would talk about it with me.”

His plaintive gaze met hers. “I’ve never spoken of that time to anyone. I don’t know why I should speak of it now except….”

“Except you understand what it is like to see your father care for another, besides the woman who bore you. It is another thing which we share.”

At his quizzical glance, she continued, “We both lost our mothers as children.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “Your father is still alive, but mine is not. I wish he were, so I could let him know how much I honor him still. You have the chance to do so with your father. He deserves your love and loyalty.”

“I know and he has it, until my death…but, he loves the
kadin
. I saw it in his eyes, his tenderness toward her.”

He leaned back, his eyes meeting hers again. “You begrudge him happiness? Did you think he would pine for your mother forever?”

She shook her head, but mumbled, “In some ways, I had hoped he would.”

“If he has found love again, rejoice in his happiness. Love is so fleeting in this world. Each of us must take our happiness where we can find it.”

She said nothing, staring into his dark eyes. They had never been this close before in theiryears of marriage. His almond-eyed gaze remained level with hers for a time. Then he leaned closer, his lips hovering close to hers. She drew in a breath. Her heart pounded so loudly, he must surely have heard it.

“What is this?”

A high-pitched screech echoed from a woman who stood in the archway. Her gauzy garments revealed more skin than they covered. Cosmetics enhanced her curvy lips and alabaster cheeks.