Sultana's Legacy (35 page)

The jailor shoved her from the cell and closed it behind her with a heavy thud. Although he trembled, he locked the gate.

“I told you to stay out of there! Now I shall have to summon the doctor. The Sultan shall know I opened the cell. It is not my fault. I’ll tell him, you made me do it!”

She sneered at him. “Your sniveling is unworthy of a man. I shall tell Nasr I forced you to do it myself. You have one task now. Ensure Muhammad’s survival. Get a doctor for him.”

She gripped the iron bars and rattled them. “You cannot die, not now. Nasr has vowed you shall live. You must!”

Muhammad looked at her for the first time. Recognition filled his reddened eyes, as they widened.

Then, he laughed. The blood-curdling, throaty cackle reverberated through the plastered walls. Even after she left him, his laughter chased her through the dank jail and followed her up the narrow, musty corridor into the daylight.

She stared at the steps to the basement for the last time and then closed her eyes. Tears seeped from beneath her lids, but she did not wipe them away.

“Farewell, brother. May Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful grant your soul forgiveness.”

Chapter 22

The Oath-Breaker

Prince Faraj

Gharnatah, Al-Andalus: Rabi al-Thani 709 AH (Granada, Andalusia: October AD 1309)

When Faraj pushed aside the oaken doors of the throne room with their corroded brass handles, rusted hinges creaked and groaned as an old man stirred from slumber. Windswept leaves preceded him. They scattered and joined dried husks of dead foliage in the corners of the chamber. Cobwebs hung in tatters, draped across the lattice-covered windows. Even the air smelled musty and stale. A state of decay enshrouded the throne room, within six months of the Sultan’s reign.

Nasr leaned back in the cushiony comfort of his throne. An entourage in brocaded robes sat at his feet. Faraj assumed they were the usual sycophants who sought his favor, until he drew closer at the Sultan’s beckon. Nasr surrounded himself with boys, presumably the sons of those who sought the Sultan’s esteem. The children gazed at him, as though held in the sway of a pagan god.

Nasr, with his turban askew and falling over one eye, and his wrinkled clothes did not have the appearance of a divine or even kingly presence. His robes were not traditional Moorish garments. His clothing mimicked the garments of the Castillan nobles. His loose-fitting robe fastened at the neckline, but revealed a white, embroidered tunic that fell just above his knees. Two long tubes of cloth encased his legs, which ended in ankle-high boots. His un-bearded chin rested on his hand, while a gold cup dandled between two fingers of the other. With his booted feet propped up on two silk cushions, the master of all Gharnatah seemed bored.

Faraj knelt and bowed his head. A flurry of movement followed. The Sultan commanded him to rise and come forward, in a somewhat slurred voice. Someone had righted his turban and taken away the cup, though a dark red stain tainted the cushion at his feet. Some of the thick liquid dribbled along the channels between the tiles.

The boys sat on the left and right of the throne. Faraj shook his head at the extravagant waste of fine silk and brocade worn by the children. The Galician guards stared straight ahead, lances and swords at their sides. They wore chainmail in the Castillan style. Faraj halted at the base of the dais.

The Sultan asked, “Leaving so soon, brother?”

The heady scent of alcohol warned of Nasr’s drunkenness. Faraj looked away and concealed his disgust. The sot was not fit to rule Gharnatah.

Nasr tried to stand. One boot slipped on the liquid pooled at his feet. A boy wiped the wine with the hem of his garment. The Sultan scowled at him, despite his haste, before Nasr’s heavy-lidded gaze met Faraj’s own.

“You do not stay for the celebration?” Nasr swayed on his feet. Then he sank down on the throne again with a jarring thud.

“No, my Sultan. I believe it is best to return to Malaka.”

“Yet, you are the hero of this day. You, who brokered this new peace between Gharnatah and al-Maghrib el-Aska….” He stopped in mid-sentence and glanced around him.

A boy appeared at his side, with the gold cup in his hand, brimming with dark scarlet liquid. Nasr reached for it. Some sloshed over the rim and speckled his white tunic. He frowned at the gathering stain, as though uncertain as to why it had appeared. Then he downed the cupful and belched.

His lopsided grin fell on Faraj. “Yes, because of you, the representatives of Sultan Abu al-Rabi Suleiman of the Marinids have signed the treaty. Now, I have peace at my borders.”

If the Sultan thought of the subjugation of Gharnatah to Castilla-Leon, Aragon and al-Maghrib el-Aska as peace fairly won, Faraj would not contradict him.

He had brokered the humiliating terms through which Gharnatah acknowledged a state of vassalage in its relations with Castilla-Leon. In Rabi al-Awwal, just a month earlier, Fernando IV of Castilla-Leon had besieged the coast of Al-Andalus. He attacked first at al-Mariyah and Al-Jazirah al-Khadra, territories defended by men who had married Faraj’s daughters. Aisha survived as did her children, but she lost her husband in the resistance at al-Mariyah.

Then, as hounds scenting blood in the air, the Marinids launched a naval blockade at Malaka. Faraj held his city. Despite his bravery, the brutal bombardment left
al-Jabal Faro
a scarred relic of its former glory. The Sultan feared if the city’s stout walls fell to this new menace of gunpowder artillery, the Marinids would sweep across the Sultanate.

He sent word to Faraj and ordered him into negotiations with the Marinid delegation at Gharnatah. The princes Abd al-Haqq and his cousin Prince Hammu led the Marinids in their talks. Nasr acknowledged, or rather his ministers warned him, he could not wage warfare on two fronts against three enemies. This time Castilla-Leon had proved stronger than in previous years, aided by its erstwhile ally, Aragon.

As a result, in addition to yearly payments of tribute to Castilla-Leon and losses of territory to Aragon, Gharnatah would also endure heavy tariffs on all its goods imported from al-Maghrib el-Aska. The Volunteers of the Faith would also return to Gharnatah and secure the interests of the Marinids in the peninsula.

The Sultan shifted on the throne. Faraj pushed aside his embittered memories and focused on the moment.

Nasr said, “I wish you would stay, but I cannot prevent you from going.”

He whispered something to one of the boys, who disappeared behind the latticed
purdah
. Faraj stared hard at the space, certain no royal women lurked behind its confines. Nasr had refused all offers of marriage and alliance.

The boy returned with a large leather pouch.

The Sultan said, “Another extravagant gift from the King of Castilla-Leon. He also sent me plans for an almanac and the building of an astrolabe, which I am eager to try. In addition, he has provided casks of wine from his best vineyards. Who else should he favor with his gifts except me? I am his loyal vassal.”

Faraj’s jaw tightened. “The Prophet, may peace be upon him, deemed wine an intoxicating indulgence, best avoided.”

“This is why I only drink it on special occasions, like this day. Surely our God shall forgive.”

The boy offered the leather pouch to the Sultan, who snatched it from him and shoved the empty cup into his hands. “Enough for now.”

The child scrambled back to the rest of the group, his face downcast.

Faraj asked, “Who are these children?”

The Sultan answered, “The youngest sons of my loyal nobles. Most make good pages.”

“I thought all boys of the nobility trained in the service of the
Diwan
.”

“Yes, those who are worthy, the heirs of governors and such, but minor nobles do not deserve the honor.”

“May I ask, my Sultan, what of your brother Muhammad?”

 Nasr wiped his mouth, his gaze suddenly intent and alert. “What about him?”

“Does he fare well in exile at Munakkab?”

“Of course. I made my oath to you to keep him alive, or have you forgotten? He lives…but, you make me very angry each time you question me about Muhammad.”

“He is the Sultan’s half-brother and bears the same blood as my wife.”

“Fatima could care less about him!” Nasr snarled. “So should you. I am Sultan now. You should care more for my moods.”

Faraj said, “Then I beg your forgiveness. I shall trouble you no more. By your gracious permission, I take my leave.”

“Wait!” Nasr tossed him the leather pouch. “A gift for you. You may look at it.”

Faraj bridled at the permission his master deemed necessary. From the pouch, he withdrew a weighty necklace of gold, studded with stones, including pearls and amber.

“An interesting piece, my Sultan.”

“It is a gift from the King of Castilla-Leon. They call it a car…carca…I don’t remember the name now.”

“A
carkenet
, my Sultan.”

“Ah, indeed. The King’s emissary had told me. I forgot the name. I’m sure you shall wear it with pride.”

He looked around and bellowed for his empty cup. A petulant pout darkened his face. He twirled his hand through the air in a sorry attempt at dismissal.

Faraj bowed stiffly and retreated. Each footstep took him far from the indolent court of Sultan Nasr. Yet, his departure did not ease the burdens that crowded his heart.

***

Faraj waited on a groom who saddled his horse in the courtyard. Behind him, Khalid cleared his throat. Faraj looked aside and bit back a groan.

The powerful minister Ibn Safwan sidled toward him. He stood long and thin as a bowstring, with his elegant features drawn to a point, so that his nose and lips jutted. He did not walk so much as he glided across the cobblestones.

“The peace of God be with you, honored
Raïs
of Malaka.”

Despite the pleasant greeting, a chill ran down Faraj’s back, which had nothing to do with the cool breeze in the courtyard.

Ibn Safwan observed, “You do not come to the capital often.”

“I prefer the comforts of home at Malaka.”

Ibn Safwan leaned in. “Your voice is missed here.”

“By whom?”

“Those who support the rightful ruler of Gharnatah, Sultan Muhammad.”

The groom cleared his throat. Faraj waved him off and walked a short distance from his companions with Ibn Safwan.

“My wife’s brother Nasr holds the throne of Gharnatah. It is the will of the
Diwan al-Insha
, which if memory serves, you are still a minister of the council. Sultan Muhammad is in exile at Munakkab. He has no further claim.”

“Nasr’s not fit to rule either, the drunkard! I voted with the minority. Others including the
Hajib
ibn al-Jayyab wanted to seize power. Nasr is weak! The ministers looked for a ruler they could control and they have found such a one. Say what you may of Sultan Muhammad, but for all his unpredictability and cruelty, he is the legitimate heir of his father. Who is this Nasr, but a child of a Christian slave? Muhammad must regain his throne!”

Faraj looked around them before he pitched his voice low. “I want no part of this intrigue. I wish to live in peace with my family. Nasr is Sultan. You stood before the entire court and acclaimed him ruler of us all. You must accept your decision.”

Ibn Safwan drew back and sneered at him. “Whose voice speaks to me now? That of the
Raïs
of Malaka, who showed his lingering support for Sultan Muhammad at Nasr’s coronation? Or do I hear the words of a certain Sultana of Gharnatah?”

“Leave my wife out of this!”

“Everyone is well aware of the Sultana Fatima’s support for Nasr. I warn you, Faraj, if you are not with us, you shall not share the spoils when Muhammad returns.”

The minister shuffled off and viewed the faience vessels and pottery displayed in the courtyard of
al-Quasaba
.

After almost forty-five years in the service of the Sultans of Gharnatah, Faraj tired of these conspiracies. He cupped his forehead and closed his eyes, as though he could blot out the treasonous words Ibn Safwan had spoken.

Princess Fatima

Malaka, Al-Andalus: Rabi al-Thani - Jumada al-Thani 709 AH (Malaga, Andalusia: October - December AD 1309
)

Fatima sat on an olive wood stool before a full-length, silver gilt mirror. Haniya applied black kohl to her eyes, and stained her lips and cheeks a deep pink with iron oxide. Behind her, Baraka’s crinkled features reflected in the mirror.

Fatima looked over her shoulder. “You disapprove?”

“I did not speak,” Baraka replied. Her eyes fixed on some imaginary spot on the Persian rug. She twirled her smooth locks between nimble fingers.

“Yet, your expression betrays what you would not say,” Fatima snapped at her.

While Baraka tittered behind her hand, Fatima sighed and nodded to Haniya.

“Please, a basin with some water. Let me wash these cosmetics off my face.”

Baraka pulled another stool beside hers and patted her hand. “You do not need such enhancements. Your beauty remains.”

Fatima scowled at her. “You’re mocking me. I’m fifty-three years old, Baraka. My husband no longer sees the beautiful woman I once was.”

She rose from her stool and left Baraka’s side. She walked to the window of her bedchamber. A midday sea breeze drifted through the lattice. The wind stirred lavender damask curtains, sewn with gold thread.

“He’ll return soon. I wanted to look my best for him, as if it would help.”

Baraka moved beside her, a contemplative, far-off stare in her eyes for a moment. “I used to feel the same way.” Then she met Fatima’s gaze. “Your betrayal hurt him terribly. His anger, even after a year, is a sign of Faraj’s love. If he did not love you, he would no longer care enough to be angry.”

Fatima rolled her eyes. “I’m not so certain of his feelings. Still, I thank you for saying so, if only to comfort me.”