Sultana's Legacy (22 page)

“No! My maternal grandmother was the same way. It is not my fault. She gave me this gift, or curse. I know not what to call it. Only know that it alone guided me here.”

Nasr knelt beside her again, a sneer on his lips that turned into a deep chuckle.

“So, I am to believe you are a seer, who perceived Father’s death and so came in all haste to Gharnatah. If that is true, then tell me everything! Tell me of the manner of his death and I shall know whether you are a liar!”

“I cannot do that! My knowledge occurs in a sudden alteration of my feelings. Joy that gives way to sadness without warning. The pain that stabbed at me when Father died. I never know the details!” She sank on her side. “Nasr, I hate Muhammad! He is a monster. Don’t you remember how he tried to hurt you when you were a child? I saved you from him! Why would I have cared, if I did not despise him? By the Prophet’s beard, he tried to murder me and my unborn child before Ismail was born.”

“What folly is this?”

“I speak the truth! Why would I conspire with a man who once sought my death? If you do not believe me, ask Niranjan.”

“Your creature? He would lie for you!”

“Niranjan is my loyal servant. He has always been devoted to me because of my love for Father! He knows the truth. Years ago, I dined with Muhammad and one of his slaves, a girl who suffered the loss of his children several times. I thought Muhammad wanted to get rid of her, to punish her failures. Later, I realized he must have been jealous of me, angry that I could have children and he could not sire even one. His concubine, she was eating sweet cakes. Muhammad tried to make me eat some, but I did not want any….”

Her voice trailed off. The memory of Muhammad’s cruelty intruded. How he had watched and gloated while his slave perspired and vomited. How he refused to send for a doctor until it was too late. Afterward, Fatima had defended him at first, believing him incapable of such malice toward anyone. Including her. She was a fool. With the murder of their father, Muhammad had proved he could do much more.

 She whispered, “He has killed innocents before, his own cook and another slave girl to hide his guilt. He would have killed me with those honey cakes too, if I had not….”

“What did you say?”

Nasr grabbed her arm. She shrank back. He held her imprisoned in his firm grip.

His gaze bored into hers. “What did you say about honey cakes?”

“That was how he tried to poison me, how he killed his slave girl. He hid the poison in honey slathered on cakes.”

“He murdered Father in the same way.”

Nasr released her and sat back on his heels. He stabbed the dagger in the mud. She stared at him, wordless.

He clasped his hands together in his lap. “Before the night Father died, he summoned all of his sons to dine with him and your husband that afternoon. Muhammad made excuses, said he would be late. We never knew why. He sent a plate of honey cakes, to apologize for his delay. Father alone ate of the platter. Then we attended
Salat al-Asr
.

“Soon afterward, Father began to perspire, swaying in some sort of delirium. He collapsed and withdrew into unconsciousness. Your husband called for the Sultan’s servants. Within two hours, Father awoke again. He vomited blood. Then he grew quiet, so silent his physician feared he had died. Afterward he began to tremble violently. Even the frame of his bed shook. It was over soon after that. He never spoke again during all that time.”

She listened in silence while Nasr recounted her father’s death and burial. She recalled the murder of the Muhammad’s slave girl in the months before Ismail’s birth. The girl had experienced the swift effects of the poison and died in short agony.

Muhammad must have known Fatima would remember the slave girl’s sudden death and link it to her father’s own. Had her brother allayed suspicion about the Sultan’s death by giving their father a smaller dose of the poison?

If so, Fatima was the only person who knew the extent of her brother’s violence. She remained the only threat against him. She would have to safeguard herself and those whom she loved.

Fatima trembled though the evening wind did not penetrate her garments. She did not feel the chilling effect of the breeze. She did not experience the sensation of anything. Soon, even her brother’s voice faded.

 “Fatima?” Nasr shook her roughly and drew her back to the moment. “Did you hear what I said? I think, at the end, Father knew who and what had killed him.”

She licked away salty tears. “Why do you think that?”

Nasr rubbed at a tic along his temple. “He reached for the platter of honey cakes. He was desperate to get them. He knocked the salver over onto the floor. I understood the message. He tried to tell us about the instrument of his death and who had sent it. Later, I told my brother about my suspicions. He was going to confront Muhammad, but then….”

“…Muhammad devised the lie about his treason,” she finished for him.

In a rush of words, she confessed her father’s warning and intent, as he had revealed it, including the Sultan’s discovery of Muhammad’s treachery. How he was determined to resolve the matter upon his return to Gharnatah. Muhammad had acted too quickly, well-prepared for all eventualities. He must have had assistance. She would discover who had helped him, but first, she had to protect those whom she loved from further harm.

She reached for Nasr’s hand. When he did not immediately resist her, her fingers closed on his and held them. They shook, as did the lips that trembled. His eyes glistened with unshed tears.

She whispered, “Now is not the time for crying. Muhammad killed our father and brother. He tried to murder me once. If he believes you know the truth, he would not hesitate to execute or assassinate you as he did our father. You must be brave and cautious, Nasr. The eyes give us away. They reveal our true feelings. Bury your emotions, as I must do with mine.”

She wrenched the dagger from the moist earth. Rain pattered on the ground again. Droplets splattered on the blade and rolled down its curved edge.

Nasr stood and she raised her gaze to his. “Go, we shall talk in the morning.”

He nodded, despite his watery stare. “I didn’t know I could trust you. I thought you had helped him.”

“Now, you know better.”

He turned to go, but stopped in mid-stride. He looked at her, his face stricken. “Can you forgive me?”

She joined him and cupped his cheeks. He closed his eyes. She raised his face to hers. “Nasr, look at me.”

When he did so, she whispered, “You are a worthy son of our father and my true brother, the only one I have left in this world. Of course, I forgive you. Go to Nur al-Sabah. Comfort her. I shall come to you both soon.”

They hugged each other and drew apart.

He asked, “What happens now?”

She shook her head. “Do not worry. Go to your mother.”

Evening shadows encroached. Fatima shuddered, but not because of the cold or drizzling rain.

There were no limits to Muhammad’s depravity. Left unchecked, he would shatter her father’s legacy, as he had destroyed the last years of an old man’s life. She could not let him get away with his crimes against the Sultan.

She returned to the fresh mound of her father’s gravesite. She wiped the
khanjar
on the folds of her mantle and removed the dirt the rain did not wash away.

She gripped the dagger in one hand. As she closed her palm on it, the
khanjar
sliced deep into her palm. A thick crimson streak welled up. Blood trickled along the contours and channels of her flesh. It beaded at her wrist, before dripping onto the grave, dotting the pale, wet honeysuckle.

Fat raindrops splashed her forehead and cheek. She closed her eyes.

“Blessed and beloved Father, I vow by this blade, by my blood, with my last breath and all that I possess, I shall avenge your death. Muhammad shall not hold the throne of Gharnatah for long. I swear it.”

Prince Faraj

In silence, Faraj remained bent double on the floor of the throne room before a square patchwork of tiles inscribed with the ninety-nine names of God. Although his neck and back stiffened in a subtle reminder of his age, he held the pose without complaint. The cedar wood chair before him creaked, yet he kept still.

“You may raise your head,
Raïs
of Malaka.”

At the Sultan’s command, he did so in perfect understanding that his master had not allowed him to raise his eyes to him in his presence. The new Sultan sat amidst his bodyguards. His hands caressed the flower motifs carved into the cedar wood.

How many times had he seen his late uncle and Fatima’s father seated upon the same throne? He could not remember every instance. Now Fatima’s brother occupied the same chair, far sooner than Faraj might have expected a month ago. Nor had he anticipated the mockery the new Sultan would make of the Sultanate at his own coronation.

Earlier in the week, the court poet, ibn al-Hajj, whom Faraj did not even like because of his eager interest in alliance with the Christian kingdoms, entertained the audience.

Ibn al-Hajj had said, “For whom are the banners being unfurled today? For whom are the soldiers parading under the standards?”

At that moment, Sultan Muhammad had belched and muttered, “For this imbecile whom you have in front of you.”

No Sultan’s reign had ever started in such an inauspicious manner. 

Faraj’s thoughts turned from his embarrassment on the Sultan’s behalf to his wife. How had Fatima suffered? He did not doubt that she, in her uncanny way, had known of her father’s death when it occurred. How else might he explain Ismail’s sudden appearance in Gharnatah, only days after Faraj had reached the capital with Fatima’s father? They had not spoken, as he spent most of the morning in meetings with the Sultan and his
Diwan
. Yet, his son’s abrupt arrival with Fatima could only mean that she knew the truth. His heart ached for her and longed to comfort her. They would both have to wait upon his master’s demands.  

The Sultan did not regard him. Instead, he gave all his attention to the ceiling, which his grandfather’s artisans had constructed. Faraj followed his stare. The inlaid work in the shape of circles, crowns and stars glittered with hints of white, blue and gold.

The Sultan looked down from the dais, but not at him. Instead, he focused on the eunuch also bent double beside Faraj.

He ordered, “Faisal, you may raise your head now.”

The eunuch groaned as he moved from the uncomfortable position. He sat back on his heels, with his eyes still averted from his master.

The Sultan leaned forward and gripped the arms of his throne tightly. “Slave, you shall remove all of my father’s possessions from his old quarters tonight. I do not care what you do with them. Burn or sell them. It does not matter to me. The palace is mine. I expect everything gone by tomorrow morning. On the following day, my slaves shall furnish the Sultan’s apartments to my taste. Do you understand my wishes?”

“Yes, my Sultan,” the eunuch said.

“You shall also ensure the departure of the traitor’s mother, Sultana Shams ed-Duna. I want that Maghribi woman out of Gharnatah and on a boat within the month. She takes only what she brought to Gharnatah. Her bridal trousseau is forfeit. It belongs to the state.”

Faisal met his master’s gaze for the first time. His brow furrowed and his fleshy woman’s lips quivered. “Begging the pardon of my noble master, but the
addahbia
belongs to a woman all her life. These things are hers, the Sultana’s gifts from your late, honored father….”

The Sultan stood and Faisal’s voice trailed off. The Sultan strolled across the sacred square tiles and stood in their midst. Faraj put aside his shock at the sight of one so careless as to tread upon the name of God.

The Sultan said, “He is dead. I am your master now. Never forget it.”

Faisal’s gaze dropped. “As you wish, my Sultan.”

“You say that very prettily. I know your mistress does not care for my new role. She wanted her son to usurp my birthright. She has always desired it. This is my destiny, what I was born to do.”

He turned on his heels and returned to the throne, lifting the hem of his
jubba
. He sank down and clasped his hands together.

“I have other tasks for you. Arrange for the sale of my father’s remaining women in the morning. Sell the virgins and younger ones at the
Qaysariyya
. However, the older women might make suitable gifts for those among my governors who prove loyal. Specifically, the
kadin
might do well for the governor of al-Mariyah. He is aged, but she has advanced years as well. What would an old man want with a spirited wife? Better an older woman, don’t you agree, Prince Faraj?”

Faraj had barely recovered from his shock long enough to realize the Sultan now addressed him. “I do not mean to question your sovereign will, master, but did you say the
kadin
? Surely, you’ve made a mistake.”

“I do not make mistakes! I meant the
kadin
Nur al-Sabah al-Muhammad, the mother of that whelp Nasr. Did my father have more than one favorite? Surely not.”

“But, master, a Sultan’s favorite is like a wife to him. Protocol demands that she never re-marry after his death. To do so is a grave dishonor to the memory….”

“…of a dead man! He is dead! I am ruler of Gharnatah, not my father. You forget that the Sultan devises the rules of the harem. I am master here. It is my right!”

 He jerked his head at Faisal again. “I shall not forget your service to me. Now go.”

Faraj frowned at Faisal as he stood and bowed, before scrambling backward. What service had he rendered the new Sultan? Was Faisal not the chief eunuch of the Sultana Shams ed-Duna?

The guards at the entrance to the throne room opened the heavy oak doors, inlaid with brass. Faisal disappeared into the drizzling rain trickling across the marble.

“Are you eager to return to your home at Malaka?”

Faraj returned his attention to the Sultan. “I shall see it soon enough. My son Muhammad has charge of the house in my absence.”