Sultana (6 page)

The governess had returned in the morning with the slaves who brought her wedding garments, a palette of white, silver and lavender colors. Over another white cotton undershirt and ankle-length trousers, the slaves dressed Fatima in her lavender silk
jubba,
over which they drew another robe of white, brocaded cloth, the
khil’a
. Ermine trimmed the neckline of the garment. The slaves had sewn embroidered
tiraz
bands in silver silk around the sleeves.

The jewels were even more beautiful than the clothes. Heavy silver anklets, rings inlaid with pearls, and multiple strands of amethyst bracelets had weighed down her limbs. Of all those ornaments, she kept only the
khamsa,
a charm in the shape of an upturned palm, known also as the Hand of Fatima.

Now, she reached beneath her tunic and fingered the silver necklace looped through the charm. Married women wore the
khamsa
for blessings of patience, wealth and faithfulness from their husbands. She gripped the
khamsa,
struggling against a desperate need to return to her family and let them know she was safe. She needed no charm for good fortune, only a way to escape. Then, her hold on the charm loosened and faltered. If she returned to her father’s palace, she would be choosing everyone over Aisha, who promised protection and, more importantly, the mother’s love she had never felt.   

 “My princess, I beg your favor, please. Does my sister still live? Please tell me. I have not seen her for over twenty years.”

Fatima’s gaze returned to the slave. She had almost forgotten Ulayyah remained at her side.

“Halah takes care of us, my brother and sisters and me. If she knew where I was, she would want you to help me go back to my father.”

Ulayyah set the platter on her lap, with her head and shoulders bowed. Her lower lip trembled. “I cannot do it, princess. Please do not ask me.”

“Then, if you can’t help me, leave me alone!” Fatima hid her sobs behind her hands.

Soon, Abdallah returned and led Fatima from the room to another part of the house. Servants stood on either side of a shuttered olive wood door. It opened onto a dimly lit room with windows covered in lattice and torches in iron scones flickering near the low ceiling. Rugs covered the floor and colored silken cushions lined the base of the walls.

At the heart of the chamber, a woman reclined on a black pallet, her head lolling on red and silver striped pillows. Aisha knelt beside her, hands clasped. The woman on the pallet waved her off and crooked a finger toward Fatima, who shuffled across the floor.

For the first time, she gazed upon the face of her maternal grandmother. Dark brown hair curled about the woman’s timeworn countenance. Her eyes, like a cat’s own, resembled Fatima’s, though there were crinkles in the leathery flesh surrounding them. She was small and slim. Her red and black robe, bracelets and rings shimmered with gemstones.

“Your bloodlines bear out too much, child, for me to call you kin. You belong to the Nasrids, much to my regret. I would speak with you alone, princess of Gharnatah.”

Fatima glanced at Aisha, who nodded toward her before retreating to the doorway. Soon, Fatima stood alone with her grandmother.  

At a gesture from her, Fatima sat and handed her a water pipe on a silver gilt tray.

The woman inhaled and set it aside. “I am Saliha, daughter of Abu Abdallah Muhammad ibn Yusuf, the last rightful Hud lord of Ishbiliya.”

Fatima frowned. “I never knew the Hud married among the Ashqilula clan.”

The Hud had been her grandfather’s enemies until he helped the Christian kings destroy them. Yet, he had chosen Aisha as a bride for his eldest son. Fatima drew back, realizing that she bore the blood of her family’s enemies through her mother.

“I never said I married by choice, girl. Your grandfather raided Ishbiliya and forced me to marry an Ashqilula chieftain against my will. Such blood ties would not have existed in the days of my father. Your grandfather murdered my father at the gates of al-Mariyah.”

Fatima snapped, “It’s not true. That’s not what my father told me!”

“Then, he is a liar who shall burn in hell-fire, just like his accursed father.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t know anything. Father said my grandfather rose against the Hud because they were cruel masters of al-Andalus. That is why Grandfather helped the Christians conquer Ishbiliya.”

The woman closed her eyes. “One day, you shall have to learn about your family. Your grandfather is not the benevolent savior of al-Andalus. Your innocence and youth blind you to the truth about him now, but one day, you shall be a woman and the truth shall become clearer in your mind. Your grandfather has betrayed his brothers of the Faith, because he is greedy and corrupt.”

Fatima stared at her in silence, although her heart pitched violently inside. How could this woman say such things about her family? It could not be true. At night, her father often lulled her brother and sisters to sleep with stories of his father’s raids along the Christian frontier and tales of how he protected the people of Gharnatah from Christian and Muslim enemies. Her father would never lie to her, it was impossible.

Fatima muttered, “I don’t believe you.”

The woman opened her eyes and returned her intent stare. “Believe what you must, child. It shall not comfort you. I have wept for my Ishbiliya, a once great and cultured city. Now, the faithful live in squalor in the Christian Sevilla. Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, calls to me, but even death cannot grant me comfort. Thoughts of how much my family has lost because of yours plague me. I would fight on and live, if only to see your family’s end.”

“Are you dying?”

“There is a canker growing in my breast. My useless physicians can do nothing. Each day the pain grows and I swallow more opium.”

Fatima looked at her feet, unsure of what to say.

“Are you concerned for me, child?”

“I don’t feel happy when anyone dies. I’ve never met you before, but I’m not happy to see you suffer.”

“Then you have more kindness in you than any member of your clan. The treachery of your family defeated my father. My one satisfaction comes in seeing you at last, for in you, I have beheld the ruin of the Nasrids.”

Fatima frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Your children shall destroy your grandfather’s line of Sultans. Neither the Ashqilula, nor the Christians kings shall claim the victory over your family. No, that line shall end with the tyranny of the children you bear, and their sons, and the sons of their sons. My father always said, the blood shall bear out in the end and what is rotten at its core cannot yield better.” She moaned then sagged against the pillows in shudders that visibly wracked her body.

Though puzzled, Fatima could hardly bear the sight of her pain. “Can I help you? Do you want me to call your son?”

“Abdallah cannot help me.”

Fatima waited for a moment before asking, “What did you mean when you said my children would destroy the line of Sultans?”

Her grandmother made no reply. After a long silence, Fatima thought she was dead. Leaning closer, she listened for labored, shallow breathing.

The woman’s birdlike hand caught her wrist, nails digging into the skin. “You shall see the end of your family name. You cannot prevent it. You shall remember my words and know the truth of them.”

Her grip relaxed, arm falling at her side. Her chest still rose and fell, though slower than before. She did not speak again. Fatima fled and found Aisha and Abdallah waiting in the darkened corridor.

“My mother lives?” he asked. At her nod, he said, “I do not think she shall return with me to Naricha.”

Aisha asked Fatima what her mother had said.

“She told me that she was born into the Hud family. Did my father know that when he married you?”

“He did. His desire for me outweighed any thought of my blood ties. What else did Saliha say to you?”

“She said my children would destroy the Sultan’s family. I don’t know what she meant.”

With a faraway look, Aisha whispered, “My mother has always had an understanding of things, beyond the comprehension of others. When I was a child, she always knew with certainty of events occurring miles away. When tragedy struck, she never seemed surprised. She has the gift of prophecy and she is never wrong.”

Abdallah pressed his fists to his temples. “I shouldn’t have done this. I shouldn’t have told you to bring the girl here.”

“I am pleased that you did, kinsman, even if your secrecy is an affront to me. How else might have I have seen the bride I shall claim for my own?”

They turned at an unexpected voice coming from the shadowy hall. Abdallah drew back, his hand going to an empty sheath belted at his side. When he seemingly realized the weapon was not there, his whole body sagged.

Aisha drew Fatima into her arms and pressed her close, enveloping her in silken skirts. Fatima shuddered despite her fervent hold and stared into the darkness.

Heavy footfalls heralded the emergence of two bloodstained strangers. The taller, thinner man hefted a crimson-stained blade. As he approached, tiny droplets dotted the marble floor. Deep lines crisscrossed his leathery complexion, where coarse, dark facial hair did not cover him. His bold gaze pinned them in the corner.

“What other secrets have you been keeping from me, Abdallah? You have brought your aged mother all the way from Naricha. What could have been so important for you to drag a dying woman to Gharnatah? Only this reunion with your sister and her daughter?”

The man behind him stepped closer. Aisha’s gasp echoed along the length of the corridor. “Abu Muhammad! What are you doing here?”

His likeness reminded Fatima of the Sultan and her father. He even had the same hazel eyes, hooded under heavy brows like the Sultan’s own and the hawk-like nose.

He looked down the length of it at her mother, then at her before spitting on the floor near Abdallah’s shoe.

When the first intruder cackled and brandished his sword, Fatima’s skin crawled. Flecks of blood from his weapon spattered the walls.

“I promise, Aisha, this shall not be a sweet reunion between you and Abu Muhammad. You should have married him when you had the chance. Now, you are tainted, cousin, with the blood of those who have turned against us. Abu Muhammad has accepted the truth about you.”

Aisha trembled so violently that Fatima clutched her tighter. She realized these men must be the Ashqilula chieftains, Abu Ishaq Ibrahim of Qumarich and Abu Muhammad of Malaka. If so, what cause did her mother have to fear these two men so much? They were kin, after all.  

Her mind grasped that Ibrahim was a cousin to Aisha, but the news that Abu Muhammad had wanted to marry her startled Fatima. She truly did not know the woman who had given birth to her.

Abdallah stepped between them and the men. “Please, my lords Ibrahim, Abu Muhammad, my kinsmen. Let us speak in private. My lord Ibrahim, your bloodied sword frightens the princesses.”

“Did you know they were coming to Gharnatah, too, Abdallah?” Aisha’s voice was shrill. When Fatima looked up at her, her bosom rose and fell rapidly and her olive skin paled.

 “Go back to the room across the hall, sister. Take Fatima with you.” He spoke without looking at either of them.

Aisha rounded him, still clutching Fatima against her. “Did you know, brother?”

“Go, damn you, before you make things worse. I should not have asked you to come. Go, Aisha!”

She dragged Fatima with her and Abdallah followed. When he slammed the door shut in their wake, Aisha turned and rattled the handle. The door would not budge. She collapsed on the floor, cradling her head in her hands. Her scream pierced the silence of night, carried on the breeze that stirred the damask curtains.

Chapter 4

Blood Ties

Princess Fatima

Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Muharram 664 AH (Granada, Andalusia: October AD 1265)

Fatima crouched beside Aisha on the marble floor. Her hand rose in mid-air and fell. She did not know if she should comfort her mother, as her governess often did when her sister Muna had nightmares. Would it be better if she left her crying alone? Lost in uncertainty, she lapsed into cold silence.

Aisha rose and clasped her hands together. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. I should never have trusted….”

She hesitated at the first step, but after regaining her footing, she walked to the window. She sat on the sill and gestured for Fatima, who joined her on the stool. She peered through the lattice and Fatima followed her gaze, seeing little in the shadows of night. Even the flickering lights were gone.

“Forgive me, child. I thought I could have saved you, but it seems it is your destiny to remain at Gharnatah.”

“What are we going to do?” 

“You shall return to
al-Qal’at Al-Hamra
.”

“What about you? You mean, we shall return to
al-Qal’at Al-Hamra
, right?”

When Aisha looked at Fatima, her sad smile returned. “Dawn is almost upon us. We don’t have much time. Abdallah told me he had hired the help of a Jewess, the Sitt al-Tujjar. She is a widowed merchant’s wife, who sells silk and other goods in her husband’s stead. She travels throughout al-Andalus, even to
al-Qal’at Al-Hamra
, where your grandfather’s wives and other courtiers rely on her trade and her gossip. I could persuade her to help. She would do it, for the right fee.”

“But we’re locked inside the room. How can you talk to her?”