Sultana (32 page)

Fatima turned to Hayfa. “Why do you suggest that? She is my husband’s property.”

When none of the slaves replied, Fatima turned on Baraka. “Perhaps, I should tell my husband to sell you. Of his concubines, you are the most disagreeable.”

“He shall never let me go! I am still the favorite.”

“Truly? When was the last time he called you to his bed?”

A small thrill of satisfaction settled in Fatima’s stomach. The murderous gleam in Baraka’s hard eyes bolstered her suspicion that Faraj no longer slept with any of them. He was often at Fatima’s side, even on the nights of her cycle when he simply held her and rubbed her back, easing her slight cramping.

The little mouse hiding in the corner said, “Baraka is a jealous fool, jealous of you. That is why she stole your jewelry!”

Fatima gasped but Samara did not stop there. “She knows the master loves you and always shares your bed at night. She took a necklace from your room last week. She said you would not miss it, but we told her to put it back.”

“Bitch! I’ll kill you for betraying me.” Baraka advanced on her counterpart with outstretched hands.

Fatima grabbed her and whirled her around.

She struggled like a maniac. “Let me go. Barren cow! If you don’t quicken with his child soon, Faraj shall tire of you.”

Fatima slapped her hard across the face. Baraka reeled from the blow and she cupped her reddened cheek.

Fatima commanded, “Samara, fetch my necklace, you have nothing to fear.”

When Samara returned with the black opals dangling between her fingertips, Fatima took the jewels and looked at Baraka. The concubine swallowed audibly.

Fatima whispered, “There is a penalty for theft in Gharnatah. Under
Sharia
law, a thief’s hand is cut off.”

A spasm of fear crossed Baraka’s face, though her chin jutted defiantly. Just then, Leeta’s voice resonated through the harem. “My Sultana, where are you?”

“I’m here, with the
jawari
,” Fatima called over her shoulder, her gaze still on Baraka.

Leeta entered the chamber. “Marzuq told me that you had come here but I couldn’t believe it. Oh, you’ve found your necklace! Where was it?”

Fatima turned to her. “The only place you did not look – inside the chest with the other jewels. I have so many pieces, you could not have seen it buried among the others.”

Leeta gaped pop-eyed, but Fatima dismissed the question in her gaze and held the piece up to the light. “In truth, I don’t like this very much. I brought it here in the hopes one of the women might like it. Baraka does. I believe she should have it.”

Collective expressions of shock glazed over the concubines’ faces.

Fatima continued. “It would be unfair to give Baraka something and not the other two. Leeta, bring the chest and I shall look for two more necklaces.”

Leeta’s quizzical frown slowly faded as she bowed and left the room. Fatima held out the opals to Baraka.

After some time, the
jarya’s
fingers closed on the necklace. “This changes nothing between us, Sultana.”

Fatima clasped her hands together again. “I didn’t expect it would. I’ll keep the peace of my husband’s house by any means.” She paused and eyed each of the concubines in turn. “However, you should never mistake my kindness for weakness. You would not live long enough to regret it.”

Chapter 24

 Stalemate

Prince Faraj

Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Dhu al-Hijja 676 AH - Muharram 677 AH (Granada, Andalusia: May AD 1278)

The latest siege of Malaka had ended in a stalemate after only two months. On the seventh day of the month of Hajj to Makkah, the wearied and bloodied Sultan’s army walked and rode into Gharnatah, and up the Sabika hill. From the battlements of
al-Quasaba
, Fatima and her father watched their progress.

Near the end of the cortege, two soldiers guided a horse-drawn cart. Inside, Faraj’s body lay prone under a white cloth.

Fatima clutched her father’s hand. He squeezed hers in return. “My physician shall examine him. Do not fear for his life. He shall survive.”

The Gharnati warriors brought the cart into the citadel. Fatima followed her father from the battlements down winding steps into the open-air courtyard. Panting, the team of horses slowed on command, their gray coats gleaming with sweat. They drew abreast just when she reached the last step.

She reached over the side of the cart and touched her husband’s face. He was pale and beads of perspiration dotted his brow and cheeks. New growth sprouted from his unkempt beard. He moaned in a stupor, head lolling, the only signs that he still lived.

Her father’s bodyguards hefted Faraj’s lean frame on the bier in the cart and carried him to the palace. At the Sultan’s command, the men laid him on their master’s bed. Her father’s personal physician waited to examine him. The doctor washed his hands in a ceramic bowl, the scent of rosemary rising up from the hot water. He lifted the sheet and revealed a yellow-tinged, putrid-smelling area near the groin. The flesh cracked at the edges. An Ashqilula swordsman had stabbed Faraj during the siege of Malaka. Fatima’s eyes misted but she held back a shuddering sob. Her father placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

The physician turned to them. “I’ll inspect the wound, clean and dress it. The pus has set in, because he did not receive treatment immediately. He burns with fever, another mark of the infection. Bloodletting may reduce it. The wound is close to the groin, but not life threatening. With care and medicine for the infection, he shall live.”

Fatima asked, “What about poison? Is there a risk the blade that wounded him carried poison? The Ashqilula use such tactics in battle.”

“Most poisons applied to a sword or an arrow act fast. He would have died. Now, I must tend to him without delay.”

Her father drew her away. “Trust my physician.”

Fatima nodded and followed him to the throne room, where the
Diwan
awaited him. She sat behind the latticed
purdah
with Shams ed-Duna and watched while her father gestured toward his
Hajib
, Ibn Ali.

 The Prime Minister said, “We have made contact with al-Hakam pirates at Mayurqa, my Sultan. Their representative shall meet with us in ten days’ time.”

Fatima turned with a puzzled frown to Shams, who put a finger over her lips in a bid for quiet.

Ibn Ali continued, “Forgive me, my Sultan, but we are uncertain about your intentions. How can the clan of al-Hakam, the rulers of a tiny island in the White Sea aid us in a war against the Marinids?”

The Sultan answered. “I do not intend to declare war against them.”

Muttering and grumbling rose to fill the room. He called for silence.

He continued, “The Marinids are powerful. I cannot risk open warfare against them. Along the frontier of their eastern border with al-Tunisiyah, they have adopted a defensive posture to counter Hafsid raids for nearly a year now. Most of their army is concentrated there, with other regiments in the capital and on the coast. I need to convince Sultan Abu Yusuf Ya’qub that he cannot hold the ports of al-Andalus when his own domestic situation requires attention.”

Understanding filled Ibn Ali’s gaze. “That is why you enlist the clan of al-Hakam, my Sultan? You shall use the pirates to harass the Marinids at their home bases.”

The Sultan nodded. “The pirates of Mayurqa have plagued the coasts for years. Abu Yusuf Ya’qub’s treaty with Aragon nearly ended their raids, as he could rely upon his allies in Aragon with their ships to defend the White Sea coast. Now the treaty is over and the pirates have returned. They do not care who they raid. They fight for anyone who pays them the most. If they attack the Marinid Sultan in force, he must recall his warriors to defend his port cities. He cannot risk leaving the capital undefended. He cannot pull back his warriors from the borders of al-Tunisiyah. Instead, he must recall the Marinid forces he has garrisoned at Malaka.”

Ibn Ali said, “The pirates are ruthless turncoats. What can stop them from eventually attacking us?”

The Sultan smiled wryly. “God has truly blessed me with many daughters. I shall offer the chieftain of al-Hakam my third daughter Alimah for his bride. I shall gain a pirate for my son in-law, but also ensure the protection of my country.”

The council members murmured their approval.

After he dismissed the
Diwan
, the Sultan crossed the chamber and went behind the lattice
purdah
. He helped his Sultana and Fatima stand.

Shams ed-Duna said, “My father has agents in Gharnatah. You must move your forces with discretion and speed if you hope to surprise the Marinid warriors.”

The Sultan kissed her brow. “Everything shall happen according to our plan. You must believe, whatever happens, you and our son shall be safe. Your father shall never know it is your dower that finances the pirates at Mayurqa.”

Shams ed-Duna nodded. “It matters little to me. You are my husband. A wife owes her duty to her husband, not to a father who would break oaths with his sworn ally or endanger his family through his treachery. You have my loyalty, my Sultan.”

He raised her hand to his lips. “Truly, you are the best among wives.”

Fatima smiled at their easy accord. Linked arm in arm with Shams ed-Duna, they followed the Sultan from the throne room.

In the following three weeks, Faraj recovered from his wound. When Fatima insisted he keep to his room and rest, he resented it. He chafed at taking sponge baths, rather than relaxing in the warmth of the
hammam
and complained about how much he missed riding his horse through the gorges and valleys of the capital every day.

When her father’s physician visited, he seemed pleased with Faraj’s progress. The doctor told Fatima her husband was well enough to resume most of his normal activities that did not require great exertion. Though he walked with some stiffness on his left side, Faraj healed. Laughter and passion filled Fatima’s bedchamber at night, as she took the lead in their lovemaking.

Towards the end of the month, Amoda came to Fatima with a wide smile. “You’re late.”

A giddy chortle escaped her lips. She held out a series of bound parchments. Turning to the last page, she said, “See the notations for the month of Dhu al-Qa`da? Here was the first day of your last menses. I have been tracking your cycle for five years. For the first time, you’re three days late.”

Understanding dawned. Fatima palmed her belly. “Do you think it is possible? I could be pregnant?”

Amoda nodded and laughed as Fatima hugged her.

Five days passed where she spun fantasies of what her baby would look like. Would it be a boy or a girl? She nursed her tiny secret, offering silent prayers to God. If Faraj noticed her improved mood, he did not comment. He seemed very happy to have her smiles by day and caresses at night. Her secret remained hidden.

At the end of the week, she awoke and leaned on one elbow to watch dawn’s light play on Faraj’s face while he slept. He opened his eyes and caught her staring.

He nuzzled her cheek. “Was I snoring like you do?”

“You were snoring, but that’s not why I was staring. Do you know how handsome you are?”

“You’re in a playful mood this morning. You have been for days now. I should stay here with you all day instead of meeting with your father and brother.”

“You told me Father wanted to discuss the recent Castillan naval movements off the coast. You should see him. I’ll be waiting for you when you come back.”

His warm kiss entreated her consideration but she gave him a light push out of the bed.

Leaning back into the familiar comfort of her pillow, she admired his lean, hairy legs as he walked away. Yet, she could not linger in the bed anymore than Faraj could. She had arranged yesterday to meet with Marzuq for a weekly review of household accounts. She stood, stretched her arms above her head and then froze as a familiar dull ache tugged at her back. Instantly she knew there would be no child.

“My Sultana, are you awake?”

Leeta’s voice drifted beyond the doorway. Fatima blinked back tears and composed herself. “Enter.”

“Good morning, my Sultana, I hope you slept well.” Leeta’s voice trailed off.

“I did. Thank you.” Fatima’s hand on her empty belly shook. Her mind screamed denial. A tiny frown marred Leeta’s face, but Fatima did not have the heart to share her disappointment with anyone. She had harbored so much hope for such a fleeting thing.

How could losing something she never had cause so much pain?

On the first of Muharram, Fatima attended her father’s gathering in the palace gardens, Music and children’s laughter filled the air. Mothers chided rambunctious older children and soothed fussy, younger ones. Shams ed-Duna and the
kadin
’s children played together, laughing with their plump baby arms held out to their mothers. Shams ed-Duna balanced her son on her hip, twirling around while he giggled. The
kadin
stood next to Shams ed-Duna, helping her eldest daughter Zaynab on to a child-sized, wooden horse, festooned with a silken, padded saddle. Zaynab kept sliding backward on the colorful material whenever Nur al-Sabah left her unattended.

When Shams ed-Duna set her little prince down, on pudgy legs, he ambled to where the
kadin
’s second daughter Fayha sat with Fatima’s youngest sister, Nadira. She spun a brightly colored metal top for the younger children’s amusement. Nur al-Sabah looked on, stroking the rounded bump underneath her robe. Her two daughters, Zaynab and Faridah, were the mirror image of their mother with wavy blonde hair and her eye color.

Pain knifed through Fatima’s heart. After consultation with many midwives, none could find the cause for her failure. She stared at the children, wishing desperately for one of her own.

Faridah took hesitant first steps, moving very unsteadily toward Fatima. She tugged at her skirts and stared, two fingers in her mouth. The
kadin
reached for her.