Sultana's Legacy (27 page)

After a poignant farewell with Shams ed-Duna and her sisters, Fatima prepared for her departure from Gharnatah. Faraj would follow later. For now, he pursued negotiations of Muhammad’s proposed treaty with the Castillans. Fatima could not remain any longer. She could not look upon her father’s beloved city again, once a haven, until she had cleansed it of the filth of Muhammad’s reign.

Yet, she could not leave those whom she loved defenseless against him. An hour after dawn, she paced Nur’s old chamber. Niranjan rushed into the room.

She whirled and faced him. “What took you so long? The caravans bound for Malaka leave this afternoon!”

He sagged in a bow. “Forgive me, but after I returned from the
Qaysariyya
, I learned that your brother Muhammad returned for his ablutions. He could not use the facilities because the
hakkak
took her own life in the
hammam
. She cut her wrists and bled to death in the water.”

With a sob, Fatima turned from him and gripped the stucco wall. Yet another innocent life lost, another needless death that resulted from Muhammad’s cruelty.

Over her shoulder, Niranjan said, “Forgive me for failing you.”

She made no reply. Her hands curled into fists at her side and shook with the rage she had buried deep down inside.

Niranjan laid a long, feminine finger on her shoulder. She stiffened at his touch. He removed his hand.

At last, she turned to him. “Come, we must not keep Nasr waiting.”

Nur al-Sabah’s son had taken a house in the southwest of the complex, among a row of small estates built for members of the royal family. Two juniper trees shaded the entryway of Nasr’s new home.

When Fatima appeared on the step, Sabela opened the door. Her eyes widened before she bowed demurely and held the portal open.

Fatima stepped around her. “Where’s your master? Tell him his sister Fatima has come.”

The slave girl scurried away. Fatima and Niranjan waited with the men he had brought from the
Qaysariyya
. Fatima crossed her arms over her chest.

Nasr did not take long to arrive at the indoor courtyard. Dark shadows loomed beneath his eyes, but he spared her a smile. The golden visage of his mother Nur al-Sabah was in his large, iridescent eyes and in the curve of his full lips. Fatima missed her friend, taken too soon from her because of Muhammad’s treachery.

“I am leaving Gharnatah, brother.”

“I saw your husband yesterday in the evening. He told me.”

“I must go. I cannot leave you without ensuring your safety.”

She turned to Niranjan, who gestured to eight yellow-haired men behind him. In unison, they fell to their knees.

Nasr asked, “Who are these men?”

Niranjan replied, “They are Galicians, young master.”

Nasr’s mouth gaped. “My mother’s people?”

Fatima said, “They shall serve you as your guards and protect you in my absence. The Galicians are Christian slaves. They do not speak Arabic. I know your mother taught you her childhood tongue and her religion.”

Nasr ducked his head, as if ashamed, but Fatima nodded.

She said, “The secret remains between Nur al-Sabah and me. Niranjan would never speak of it to anyone. Nur knew our father would have disapproved. I am glad she had the good judgment to teach you her ways. Now, her wisdom shall protect you when I cannot. The Galician guards answer only to you. Command their loyalty. It is yours.”

“Muhammad could still strike out at me at any time. He has rid the court of our father’s most trusted servants. He has even begun to dismiss men of the
Diwan al-Insha
, those who served Father all their lives.”

“Let us hope he does not murder them, too.”

Nasr glanced at her. She bit her lip at her flippant tone. “Forgive me. I should not have spoken so carelessly, when so many lives remain in danger. You must become accustomed to assigning these men orders. Do so now.”

When he faltered, she glared at him. “You are a prince of the Nasrids! A prince does not falter before his minions. No son of my father’s blood would hesitate. Now command them, in Galego, as your mother taught you!”

His jaw tightened. He spoke in a somewhat nasally tone. The men dispersed to the fringes of the courtyard and stood in silence.

Fatima grasped Nasr’s shoulders. He returned her fervent stare. “I thought I could come to Malaka with you.”

She shook her head. “You must remain here. We must not arouse suspicion. Muhammad would worry if you were with me. He cannot suspect my plans.”

“What do you intend to do?”

She frowned. “I should think it would be obvious. You must replace Muhammad on our father’s throne.”

Lines crisscrossed Nasr’s youthful brow. “You want me to be Sultan in his stead?”

“Who else is there? Our father and our brother are dead. Muhammad ensured that. You are the last and best hope of our father’s legacy.”

“But I don’t know how to rule! I don’t even have a
wazir
’s post.”

“That is why you must stay here and learn what you can of governance. You must cultivate friendships among the
Diwan al-Insha
. Learn where their loyalties lie. Muhammad cannot replace all of them. Some of the ministers were devoted to my father. We must see which of them shall be loyal to you.”

“But my mother was a slave….”

“She was queen of my father’s heart!” Fatima waved a dismissive hand through the air. “You are her beloved child, the last son of my father. Muhammad cannot hold the throne. You must take his place upon it.”

“Even if I found supporters, a prince’s stipend from the royal treasury is not enough to pay my bodyguards and buy the support of the army. Without the army, I could never rule.”

“Gain loyalty first among the
Diwan
. That is coin you can spend to sway others. When you have the allegiance of the ministers, we shall turn to the military. My money shall secure their backing.”

“Your husband’s money, you mean.”

“My bridal trousseau is worth a fortune. I shall sell every last piece of it if I must, only to secure your throne.”

Nasr turned from her. “This is treason.”

She grabbed his arm and jerked him around to face her again. “Muhammad’s birth alone determined Father’s choice! Our father was wrong to think his eldest son would remain faithful to him. You are Gharnatah’s last hope! I cannot let Muhammad destroy our father’s legacy. Now, are you going to stand here sniveling about treason, or can you do what our father’s blood demands? You must rule and Muhammad must face justice for his crimes. Our father, our brother and his family, and your mother! Muhammad is responsible for their deaths. He cannot hold the throne. It belongs to you!”

When she loosened her hold, Nasr rubbed his arm.

She sighed. “I do not mean to be cruel. You must see this is the only way.”

After some time, he nodded. “Yes. I must take the throne and Muhammad must die.”

“No! If we kill him outright, we are no better than him. Killing him is not justice. It is what he would do. No, he must live with his crimes. A cell in
al-Quasaba
must be enough for him. Promise me, Nasr, if we succeed and you secure the throne, you must not kill Muhammad. He deserves death, but we cannot do it. Swear it now. Swear that when you take your throne, you shall consign Muhammad to prison for the rest of his life. Nothing more.”

Nasr muttered, “Very well. I swear it.”

***

Later, Fatima said farewell to her family. Ismail stood between his father and his master Muhammad. She embraced her son. His response was just as fierce, but he also drew back first.

“Go with God,
Ummi
.”

“I pray the Hand of Allah the Compassionate, the Merciful, shall always guide you.”

Faraj stepped forward and placed his hand on her shoulders. “Travel safely, Fatima. I shall see you soon again.”

He pressed a light kiss on her brow. She said nothing in reply, not even afterward, when he frowned at her.

Instead, she stared at Muhammad. “My son relies upon your protection, as I do.”

He smiled, more of a leer than a true sign of affection. “Ismail shall prosper in my care. He has nothing to fear while he is at my side.”

“I shall hold you to that promise.”

She knelt in the windswept dust. Soft gasps escaped Ismail and Faraj. She bowed her head low and raised the hem of Muhammad’s robe to her lips. “Until we see each other again.”

He helped her stand. She suppressed a flinch, as his fingers enveloped hers. The same hands that had restrained that poor, innocent girl in the baths.

He led her to the camel outfitted with a leather
hawdaj
. Niranjan sat on a mule, with Basma and Haniya mounted on mules on either side of him.

When she settled on the camel’s back, she looked down at her brother. “Thank you.”

Muhammad leaned toward her. “You are full of pleasantries today, but I am no fool.” He pitched his voice low. “Tread carefully with me, Fatima.”

She forced a smile. “Your caution is unnecessary.”

A scowl darkened his visage. “I don’t believe you. Each time you look at me, there is a silent accusation in your eyes.”

“Why do you think so? Have you done something that you feel guilty about, brother?”

“Put such foolish fears aside. Don’t try my patience, Fatima, or my capacity for forgiveness. Remember, I know you as I know myself.”

“That is a truth neither of us can deny. Remember, I remain my father’s daughter. His spirit lives within me.”

The camel master gave the order to move out. The drivers urged the beasts, which lurched to their feet. The caravan began its weeklong trek to Malaka. Fatima leaned forward under the
hawdaj
and waved to Ismail one last time.

As he returned the gesture, Muhammad placed his hand on Ismail’s shoulder and smiled. She locked eyes with her brother, until her camel snorted and dipped down the
Sabika
hill.

Malaka, Al-Andalus: Ramadan 701 AH (Malaga, Andalusia: May AD 1302)

After Fatima had returned to Malaka, two weeks later, Leeta burst out on to the belvedere where Fatima kept a solitary vigil. “The master! He has sent word that he is a few hours away.”

Fatima leaned on the marble ledge and looked out across the White Sea. Had Shams ed-Duna reached the coast of al-Jaza’ir in safety? Fatima would not know for some time until a letter arrived.

“My Sultana?” 

“I heard you, Leeta.”

Why could no one just leave her alone? She wanted to ask the question. Instead, she inquired, “Have the silk shipments arrived?”

“Yes, we received them just after dawn. Marzuq has directed the bolts to the storerooms.”

“Good. Thank you, Leeta.”

The treasurer hovered at Fatima’s back.

“Is there something else you would share, Leeta?”

“You cannot go on like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I understand pain, my Sultana, for I am bereft of a beloved sister. You have endured more than perhaps your fair share of loss in these last months. I cannot pretend to know your pain….”

“Then why do you speak of it?”

“You are my good mistress. It hurts me to see your sorrow. Even when we break the daily fast, you pick at your food and barely swallow more than three mouthfuls before you retreat to your room. Each night, I hear you crying before you go to bed. You do not let young Prince Muhammad or your daughters comfort you. We worry for you.”

“You worry for naught, Leeta. I am grateful for your concern, but it is unnecessary. Now, leave me.”

Before Leeta withdrew, Fatima added. “It is unfitting for you to gossip about me with anyone. You are a servant of this household. Do not overstep your bounds again.”

“Forgive me.”

Fatima waved her away and rubbed her shoulders. A brisk afternoon wind blew in from the White Sea. Yet, she remained on the belvedere for the rest of the day, lost in thought. She spoke to no one and kept her silence.

Faraj found her upon his arrival. His appearance startled her at first. She had almost forgotten Leeta’s warning. He pulled her close and kissed her hair. “I have missed you.”

“You traveled without incident?”

“Yes, under the protection of my guards and Khalid al-Hakam. Our son sends his felicitations.”

“Ismail is safe?”

Faraj drew back. “Of course, he is safe. Fatima, you really must stop believing the Sultan intends to harm him. Our son is strong and wise. He has your cleverness.”

When Faraj stood beside her at the ledge, she regarded him. The area where her nail had scratched, just under his eye, was still pink.

He covered her fingers with his. “We have to talk. We both said and did terrible things to each other before you left Gharnatah. I want you to know I regret them. I am sorry, Fatima. I never meant to hurt you.”

She stared at him in silence. If she followed the path of vengeance, she did not doubt Faraj would oppose her. Could she speak the words that might doom her marriage forever?

Soon, lines marred Faraj’s brow. “Have you nothing to say in return?”

“I’m sorry, too.”

He smiled at this and looked ready to speak again, but she cut him off. “I am sorry my father placed such faith in you, only to be betrayed by your blind ambitions.”

He moved his hand. “What do you mean by betrayal?”

She laughed at him, a hollow sound. “How easily you forget how much you owe him. The precious land that you cling to, which you would not risk for even my sake. My father gave you Malaka. Yet you care more about your power and control over this city than justice for him!”

Faraj shook his head. “Again with this? Woman, have you not the good sense God gave you? I know you are convinced that the Sultan killed your father. If your father had wanted another to succeed him, he should have named him! I owe him no debt. I owe it to my son to keep what is ours by right. Nothing you say can make me feel guilty about my devotion to this place. What would you have me do? Give it all up for you? I am not so foolish as the man who turned his back on all he held dear at Tarif. I shall hold Malaka until I am dead!”