Sultana's Legacy (19 page)

“How did you come to realize the truth, Father?”

“Ridwan of the Bannigash clan, a 
talib
 of the 
Diwan al-Insha
, saw the letter mixed among others I had signed before I left for negotiations with the Castillans. The date puzzled Ridwan and he brought it to my 
Hajib
 Ibn al-Hakim al-Rundi. The Prime Minister showed it to me. Fatima, I have been a fool for my son. No more.”

She drew in a harsh breath. “You confronted my brother!”

The Sultan nodded, though it was not a question. “Muhammad denied it, of course, saying anyone could have done it. I know his handwriting. It is very similar to mine. There are subtle differences. For several months, he has counseled me against negotiations with our Christian neighbors to the north. I refused to destabilize my regime with another war, a new 
jihad
. Muhammad said we would not lose if we had Marinid help.”

She shook her head. If the letter had reached the Marinid capital at Fés el-Bali, her father would have had no knowledge of it. The Marinids would have produced the proof and deemed him an oath-breaker. Wars began in such ways. Gharnatah could not risk a conflict with the Marinids. The Sultanate would never survive it.

“Father, what do you intend to do when you return to Gharnatah? Is this why you asked Faraj to accompany you?”

The Sultan looked over his shoulder. “It is. I shall need your husband’s support, with the changes to come. Shams ed-Duna’s son shall need him as well.”

As she pressed her fingers just above her heart, he returned to her side and cupped her chin with his hand.

“I want you to know, you were right to caution me in the past about your brother. I have indulged him too much. The fault is mine. If he is deceitful, it is because I have failed him as a father, as I have failed you.”

“No, no, you have never failed me!”

“Fatima, hear me in this. I should have trusted in you and your instincts about your brother. You have never led me astray before. Now I pray Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, may bless you with the knowledge I did not possess. Have the courage to see your loved ones as they are, not as you would wish them to be. Be strong, my daughter, in the days of trial.”

He sighed and smiled, but it was a sad, empty gesture. Then he pressed his forehead to hers. “It should have been you, my Fatima. You should have been my firstborn and a male. What a formidable Sultan you would have made! I charge you, my most precious and beloved child, with a sacred responsibility. It is yours until death. I bequeath the glory of our family name and require your defense of it. Guide and protect those whom we love. This is my last and best legacy, the duty to our family. Promise me you shall hold fast to it.”

She blinked hard against her tears and embraced him once more. She buried her face in his familiar comfort.

“To the end and with my last breath, I shall honor you and our family always, blessed Father.” 

Prince Faraj

After Leila left for her new home at al-Jazirah al-Khadra, the Sultan remained with her family at Malaka until the end of the following week. He spent much time in Faraj’s company, as well as with his grandsons, Ismail in particular. As Fatima often reminded Faraj, their son had his father’s ambitious spirit, but something of his grandfather’s pride and temperament swelled inside of him, too.

On a cloudy day, Faraj left Malaka at the Sultan’s side. He and Fatima shared a poignant embrace. She had been restless all week. He supposed it had something to do with the matter she and her father had discussed in private. Whenever Faraj inquired, she had brushed aside his concerns, but he knew her well enough to remain concerned.

Now, he kissed each of her hands and her brow. More tears streamed down her cheeks.

She whispered, “Protect my father in Gharnatah.”

He chuckled and traced one of her tears. “You doubt the Sultan’s bodyguards?”

“Please, you must safeguard my father. Promise me.”

“Against whom does he need protection?”

When she shook her head, he sighed. “How do you expect me to do as you’ve asked if you keep the Sultan’s secrets? Your father must have warned you of his troubles during the wedding. Is this why he commanded me to accompany him?”

“It is. You shall understand in time. I cannot tell you more.”

“Very well. Then I shall do all I can for him. When I return, we must talk.”

“Faraj, the duties of a daughter to her father….”

“Do not compete with or exceed the loyalty owed by a wife to her husband! You are my wife. I expect your candor at all times.”

His gaze narrowed on her, as though he might penetrate the morass of her thoughts. Her watery gaze revealed turmoil, but nothing more. With a sigh, he commended her to Ismail’s care and mounted his horse.

Fatima sobbed against their son’s tunic. The Sultan and his women waved, but she could barely force a smile for them.

Faraj looked down at Khalid of al-Hakam. “Protect them until my return.”

His captain bowed his head. “Always, my prince.”

The journey to Gharnatah remained uneventful. Yet, concerns plagued Faraj’s mind. The Sultan suffered the same restlessness and unease as had plagued Fatima. Faraj could not help but feel each step in the direction of the capital brought them all closer to danger.

The massive red brick walls of the capital rose in the distance one week later, spread across the center of a wide plain. The ramparts shimmered in vibrant reds and gold under the mid-morning sun. Faraj glanced at the Sultan, grim-faced and silent, as he studied the familiar panorama. He turned in the saddle and looked over his shoulder to the first camel, which bore his wife. Then he leaned toward Faraj.

He said, “We shall share a meal with my sons this afternoon. I do not believe you are well-acquainted with the son of Shams ed-Duna.”

Faraj shook his head. “I am not. I know little of him, except that he bears my name.”

“He is a man of twenty-six years with his own family. He is burdened by a noble, dual heritage, the legacy of our family and his mother’s people.”

“Leila’s marriage was also the first occasion to formally meet your
kadin
’s son.”

“Nasr is a bright boy. He must be.”

“Indeed. After all, he is your son. Allah the Compassionate, the Merciful has blessed you, my Sultan.”

“That remains to be seen. Now, come.”

Faraj stared as the Sultan kicked his horse into a canter down the slope, and then Faraj followed his father in-law. They entered the city to the usual cheers and acclaim that always greeted the Sultan’s return.

Within
al-Qal’at al-Hamra
, the courtyard of
al-Quasaba
seemed quieter than usual. The soldiers on duty came to attention, as the royal bodyguards escorted the family.

The Sultan dismounted first and tossed his reins to a waiting groom.

“I shall meet with you an hour before prayers, Faraj. I shall remain in seclusion until then. I wish to see no one, not even the Sultana or my
kadin
.”

Faraj bowed his head. “As you command.”

The Sultan brushed his hands free of dust and proceeded into his palace. His shoulders sagged as though he bore the weight of the world upon them.

***

Before the noonday prayer, a veritable feast covered the low table of the Sultan’s quarters. Hot, fresh flatbread,
‘tharid
made with lamb in yogurt sauce. Lentils flavored with onion and garlic mingled with the scent of lemon chicken kebabs and rice with carrot and scallion. The young prince Nasr and his brother relished the meal, but Faraj ate without appreciation.

His mood matched the somber, graying visage of his master the Sultan, who had pushed his half-eaten meal away. Instead, he reached for one of the desserts, a honey cake. He sniffed at it and broke off a piece before popping the morsel into his mouth. He chewed it slowly and then gave a nod, as if of satisfaction.

The Sultan grumbled, “Where is Muhammad? He said he would be late, but it has been half an hour by the water clock.”

Faraj wiped his mouth and swallowed before speaking. “Surely, he shall be here soon. Whatever keeps him must have been important.”

Nasr asked, “Why can’t you tell us why you wanted to dine with us now, Father? Who cares if the Crown Prince isn’t here?”

Faraj chuckled at the impetuousness of the fifteen-year-old. He reminded him of his brother at that age, always eager for their father’s approval, yet living in the shadow of the heir.

“Nasr, what I shall say to you affects everyone, including your brother the Crown Prince.”

Faraj shook his head at the boy’s scowl. Perhaps his father’s rebuff rankled more so because of some enmity towards the Crown Prince. After all, he was the son of a slave, despite the feelings the Sultan bore his mother. Even Shams ed-Duna’s son ranked above him in legitimacy.

The Sultan chewed his honey cake and offered Faraj one, which he declined. The Crown Prince had sent them by his servant, likely to soften his father’s apparent anger over the delay. Given the Sultan’s ill humor, a few desserts would not alter the outcome of the day.

Faraj sought to improve the poor mood. “Did you enjoy your time at Malaka during the wedding, Prince Nasr?”

Nasr grumbled, “I hated all the women and the crying afterward. I’ll never marry.”

His brother rustled the golden curls atop his head. “Our father may choose otherwise. It is his right. You only say so because you haven’t had a woman yet.”

Nasr swatted his hand away. “I don’t want one! Leave me be!”

The Sultan chewed his second cake. “My sons, you know your mothers do not condone tussles at dinner.”

“But you do, Father,” Nasr said.

The Sultan grinned and tossed his napkin at him. He ducked just in time. He and his brother teased each other under their father’s watchful gaze.

Then, the Sultan’s belly gurgled and a rumble of gas escaped him, fouling the room. His sons looked at him from expressions glazed with shock, before Nasr burst out laughing.

Their father frowned at both of them. “I ask your pardon. Perhaps I have eaten too much.”

The call to prayer sounded. Nasr groaned. “I haven’t finished my food yet!”

His father scowled at him. “You behave as an impudent child. You are a prince of Gharnatah. Surely, your stomach can wait upon the demands of prayer. When we return, my slaves shall bring you fresh food.”

The men washed their hands and went to the antechamber, where each turned his back on the other and performed his ablutions in modesty. Then the Sultan led Faraj and his sons to the royal mosque, next to his palace. The Sultan’s bodyguards followed at a discreet distance. When he entered, those gathered within the mosque performed the customary bow and averted their eyes from him. The courtiers, soldiers, merchants and slaves filled the room.

The Sultan alone approached the central nave of the prayer hall, where the imam of Gharnatah already stood. The
mihrab
, a niche at the bottom of the wall, demarcated the
Qiblah
, the direction of prayer. Faraj stood beside his master’s sons. All of the men faced the
Qiblah
. Faraj breathed in deeply and exhaled. His body relaxed and focused upon the ritual to come. A sense of calm and quiet pervaded the chamber. Light filtered through the mosque’s latticed windows. A mild smell of incense drifted through the room. With the rest of the congregants, Faraj raised his hands to the level of his shoulders and bowed his head slightly. Within his mind, he recited the
niyyah
, declaring before God his intention to pray.

Since the age of seven, he had followed the prayer rituals his father and uncle had demonstrated. He knew them by heart, could have completed them with his eyes closed. As he spoke the words he had learned as a child, bowed and prostrated himself at intervals, the comfort of familiar sacraments washed over him.

Yet, the Sultan’s movements often interrupted his observances. When Fatima’s father completed the first
rak’ah
with an audible grunt, several of the men in the room eyed him. By the third, he staggered to his feet. At the fourth and last
rak’ah
, he mumbled the words, “Peace be upon you and God’s blessing,” as though he struggled with his speech. His guards surrounded him at the end of
Salat al-Asr
and escorted him back to his chamber in haste.

When the quartet re-entered, the Sultan cupped his brow and staggered into the recesses of the room.

Faraj eyed the perspiration dotting his brow and his flushed cheeks. “Shall I have a slave open the window, master?”

“What?” The Sultan shook his head, before he pressed a hand to his brow again. He tore off the
shashiya
, the hair beneath close-cropped to his skull.

“Yes, I am very hot. First, I must relieve myself.”

He righted himself on wobbly legs for a moment, but then his feet gave out under him. He crashed and slumped on the floor beside the table where they had dined, amid the cushions strewn around him.

Faraj reached him first. “My Sultan, you’re ill!”

His father in-law’s head lolled back on his arm. His face reddened and he tore at his throat, as though it had tightened and rendered him unable to breath or incapable of speech. With a sudden spurt, he reached across the table.

“Father, what are you trying to do?”

His second son clasped his hand, but he pulled his fingers away. His hand touched the porcelain platter of honey cakes, the only dish that remained from the earlier meal. He pulled it to the table’s edge, where it teetered for a moment. Then, the salver clattered on the cedar floor. The cakes spilled and honey smeared the floor and cushions.

An animalistic growl escaped the Sultan, before he clutched at the tunic of Faraj’s collar. The Sultan’s hand shook, but he dragged Faraj down and whispered in his ear.

“She was right! Tell her…she was…right….”

Faraj’s heart threatened to burst from his chest. Fatima had warned him to protect her father. Had she meant against her brother?