Sultana's Legacy (20 page)

His gaze lingered on the honey cakes before he pulled the Sultan close to him. He shouted for any slave who would hear him, “Help! Summon the Sultan’s physician now!”

Princess Fatima

In the late evening, Fatima sat in her husband’s receiving room, on a silk cushion of yellow and blue stripes at a small table carved in the shape of a pomegranate. The scent of cedar wood permeated the chamber.

When footsteps sounded, she swiped at her wet eyes and looked up, just as Ismail leaned against the doorpost.

Her cheeks warmed under his scrutiny. “I know. Saliha and Qabiha refuse to sleep until I come in to kiss them good night.”

He stepped into the room. A frown marred his handsome features. “You’ve been crying for days since Father and Grandfather left. It’s been a week.”

“I know. Leila left me, too.”

Ismail rolled his eyes heavenward. “Yet, you have other children here, who still need you. You should be happy. Leila and our cousin love each other. They shall make each other very happy. Father is no longer in exile. Grandfather returned to Gharnatah with him.”

She nodded. “The change in my father is remarkable. I never thought he and Faraj would reconcile.”

“You’ve never told us why Grandfather had banished him, only that the outcome of the siege of Tarif displeased him. Why?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “It is unimportant now. The years of mistrust and anger between them have gone, as a winter’s snow in spring.”

His frown deepened before he shook his head. “The Sultan is weaker than I remember him. One day, he shall be gone.”

She blinked back the tears again and avoided his gaze. She feared for her father more than ever, now that he had returned home to confront his son’s treachery and alter Gharnatah’s future. Muhammad’s treason warranted death. No one was above execution as a traitor, not even a Sultan’s son.

What would her father do? He could exile his son. Would the act ensure Muhammad never harmed anyone again? No, he could not be trusted. Her father was right. Her brother had declared himself his father’s foe. An enemy left behind would only rise up again. Muhammad would have to die. Could her father put his own son to death?

She gasped at the possibility. Yet relief flooded her at such a thought. When had she become so callous? He was her brother, but she had not thought of him as such in a long time, not since the day she knew he had tried to kill her and little Ismail, nestled in her womb.

“Where are you now,
Ummi
?”

She looked up at the sound of Ismail’s voice. She had forgotten he still stood there. His gaze assessing, he folded his arms across his chest.

She asked, “What do you mean, my dear?”

“Something troubles you. It has since Leila’s wedding day. I saw you return to the feast with Grandfather. He was gone for some time, at first with Father, but then, you came back with him. Your eyes were red then, as they are now. What did you and the Sultan talk about?”

“Matters concerning the Sultanate, nothing more.” She forced a smile she did not feel.

Undaunted, Ismail crouched beside her, like a lynx ready to spring on his prey. She met his penetrating stare and again thought of how much he resembled her father in his youth.

“Why do you keep secrets from your own family?”

“I don’t like your query or your tone. Do not forget I am your mother. You have no right to question me.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“With my life.”

“But not with the secrets of the Sultanate?”

“If there were any, they are not mine to share.” She blinked back tears and brushed at her cheek. “Now, do you trust me?”

“With my life also.”

“Then trust that whatever happens in the Sultanate, your grandfather ensures the security of his realm and I support him. I have always shared a close bond with him. You know that. Why do you question it now?”

“I question any bond between you and someone else that leaves you burdened by tears. What are you hiding? Please, tell me the truth.”

So much time had passed in which she had carried the burden of her family’s secrets alone. Years of her father’s struggles with an addiction to hashish, his every action questionable and the harem officials bribed to hide his condition. She did not fear that her husband or son would exploit the information. She had to protect her father’s legacy.

How could she confess that for years her father had been an imbecile in the sway of a narcotic, unable to think clearly, much less rule Al-Andalus? Without the loyalty of the eunuch Faisal and a cadre of slaves, his ministers would have discovered her father’s failings and removed him long ago. Her father was
al-Fakih
, the lawgiver, the prince of justice for his people. She would not let anyone take the last vestige of his glorious reputation from him.

She stared hard at her son. “If I keep secrets for my father, they are mine to keep. I am your mother, but foremost, I am a Sultana of Gharnatah. My loyalty is to the Sultan. That is the only truth that exists.”

He would never have understood anyway. All her life, she had lived by the lessons her father taught of loyalty to family. She could not forsake them, not even for a beloved son.

Ismail stood. He stared at her without blinking. It seemed her heart stopped beating for a moment. Still, she met his regard without flinching.

“Then I pray that the consequences of your ‘truth’ do not damn us all,
Ummi
.”

He turned on his heels and left without another word.

A sharp ache stabbed through her belly, eliciting a scream from the base of her throat. Spasms of pain rippled through her side. She gasped for air. The room swirled around her. Then all became blackness.

***

“
Ummi
?
Ummi
, can you hear me?”

Ismail’s voice stirred her from darkness. She opened her eyes. Her son hovered beside her, his olive-brown features full of concern. His sisters and brother surrounded him. She touched his cheek, the neat trim of his dark-brown beard prickling her fingers.

“What…happened to me?”

“We hoped you might tell us,
Ummi
. Ismail came back when he heard you cry out.” Aisha’s hand closed on hers and she squeezed it in return.

Ismail caressed Fatima’s cheek. His familiar touch made her regret the earlier harsh words between them.

He said, “An hour has passed on the water clock. Why did you faint?”

She blinked rapidly against the brightness of the lamplight. She tried to clear the haze of confusion in her head. She had argued with Ismail, just before an agonizing feeling overcame her.

She screamed. “Gharnatah! We must go!”

Ismail shook his head. “What? Why?”

“My father….We have to get to Gharnatah.”

Ismail looked at his siblings.

Fatima pleaded. “My son, you must come with me. If you have ever trusted me, then do so again now.”

Chapter 12

Loss

Princess Fatima

Gharnatah, Al-Andalus: Sha’ban 701 AH (Granada, Andalusia: April AD 1302)

For five rain-soaked days, Fatima and Ismail journeyed to Gharnatah. Torrents enshrouded the terrain in a thick mist. A light wind could not disperse the showers. Fatima’s camel snorted and shook off the cold droplets. Ismail rode his stallion at Fatima’s side, his features hidden beneath a hooded, leather cloak.

They traveled under the protection of Khalid of Al-Hakam and his thirty guardsmen. They stopped only for prayers and kept a steady pace otherwise, despite treacherous, rain-slicked rocks. For the first time, Niranjan did not accompany Fatima. She commanded him to follow in a day or so, bringing Haniya and Basma, along with the family’s provisions on pack animals. Her haste would not allow them to wait for her servants.

Fatima looked out from under the
hawdaj
. The leather canopy with its wooden frames offered her some measure of comfort. Lightning arced in vivid flashes and thunder rumbled across a foreboding sky. The wind whipped across her face and splashed fat droplets on her forehead. The rain continued unrepentant, as if the very heavens wept.

In the early evening, Gharnatah’s redbrick walls rose above the heavy haze. Ismail pushed back the hood of his cloak. Brilliant streaks pierced a gray sky and illuminated the hard angles of his face. Dark shadows encircled his eyes. He had eaten little and spoken less during the journey.

Fatima had sunk into the same deep melancholy as her son. Her tears had dried along the journey. Now, she worried for how the consequences would affect them all.

When her father had departed Malaka two weeks before, she knew the grave decision he faced. Whatever fate he had decided for her brother Muhammad, it meant Shams ed-Duna’s son would rule Gharnatah. His mother had broken ties with her Marinid family years ago. She would be a strong, positive influence in the life of the new Sultan. Yet, Fatima wondered whether Shams ed-Duna’s son could shoulder such an awesome responsibility in their father’s place.

The great, brass bell high atop the watchtower at
al-Qal’at Al-Hamra
pealed a mournful tone.

“The Sultan is dead, Ismail,” Fatima whispered. “Long may his son reign in his stead.”

Beside her, Ismail’s horse shied away. Her son nodded, but said nothing. She did not ask him how he already knew the truth, too. Clearly, she had passed the dreadful foreknowledge of things beyond her understanding to Ismail. Could he learn to bear it, as she had?

She fingered the cold blue-black beads around her neck and bowed her head. A silent prayer filled her mind.
‘By the blessings of Allah the Compassionate, the Merciful. Father, with my last breath and all that I am, I shall honor you. I shall watch over our family and protect them, as you would have done. Wherever you are in Paradise, know that in me, your legacy shall survive. I’ll never forget the lessons you have taught me. I shall hold to your memory all the days of my life. Rest now in peace, Father, your spirit is free from earthly burdens. Watch over your son, the Sultan. Guide his thoughts and deeds that he might be a blessing to your people, a Sultan worthy of your throne. Rahim Allah. Amin.”

She feared the knowledge of what awaited her in Gharnatah. Her father’s passing had not been peaceable. The jarring stab of agony she had experienced warned her of his pain-filled end. Had her husband been with him when it happened? Surely, Faraj would know the truth.

Beside her, Ismail swiped at his cheeks before he met her gaze with bloodshot eyes. “It is not manly to cry.”

She shook her head. “Your sadness honors your grandfather. Do not be ashamed of tears when sorrow is the only thing left to us. Come now, our family needs us.”

They entered the city through the towering arches of the
Bab Ilbira
. The cobblestone streets were devoid of people. The canopied stalls of the
Qaysariyya
stood empty. At the base of the
Sabika
hill and through the trees, the ramparts of
al-Quasaba
glittered under brilliant torchlight.

Fatima’s thoughts returned to Shams ed-Duna’s son, a man with two concubines who had each borne him a daughter. He had served among the
talibs
of the
Diwan al-Insha
. In time, he rose to the rank of
wazir
. Yet, the experience might not have been enough to prepare him for the sudden rule of Gharnatah.

Darkness hastened to cover Al-jazirat Al-Andalus, as the party entered the citadel’s precincts. Across a narrow gorge, Fatima spied her youngest brother, Nasr. He crossed the footbridge southwest of the complex. When her camel slowed and she alighted, drawing back the folds of her veil, he stopped. Ismail dismounted, too.

Nasr strode toward them. “What are you doing here? Surely you cannot have heard the news so soon.”

Although she knew the truth, her brother’s words confirmed her deepest sorrow. As she sagged against Ismail, he cradled her. Tears glided down her cheeks. The slick mud beneath her feet swirled before her watery gaze.

“
Ummi
said we should come,” Ismail said.

Nasr stared at her. “She did?”

Fatima reached for him blindly and hugged him close. His arms did not enfold her to him. When she released him, his hands were tight fists at his side, his face twisted with grief and some other indiscernible emotion.

“Where is my father?” Ismail asked.

“With the Sultan,” Nasr muttered. He ducked his head, staring resolutely at the earth.

A niggling worry stirred in Fatima’s breast, but before she could speak, Ismail questioned Nasr. “When was my grandfather’s funeral?”

“On the third day of Sha’ban, in the morning. He died the evening before.” Grief strained Nasr’s voice. “The new Sultan only sent word to all his provinces beginning yesterday, after his coronation. Word could not have reached you so soon at Malaka.”

He glared at Fatima for a moment. She met his cold fury with growing puzzlement.

“He has already had his coronation? Father did the same shortly after his father’s death, but I thought our brother would have invited all the provincial governors to witness the proceedings. They shall be unprepared for his reign.”

Ismail frowned, just as Nasr raised his gaze to hers. His lips trembled, as though he seethed inside, fighting against some violent emotion.

“What are you talking about? Father prepared him for years to take the throne. The
Diwan al-Insha
has proclaimed your brother Abu Abdallah Muhammad, the third of his line, as Sultan of Gharnatah.”

Her heart hammered deep inside her chest, as though it might burst forth. A sickening wave of acidity welled up in her stomach. She stepped back and shook her head. “It cannot be! Muhammad cannot be Sultan!”

Ismail said, “
Ummi
, you know Grandfather had made my uncle Muhammad his heir.”