Sultana's Legacy (37 page)

“You do not go to your capital if you wish to confront the Sultan,” Uthman said. “He is at al-Atsha.”

“How do you know the Sultan’s movements?”

“The Princes Abd al-Haqq and his cousin Prince Hammu are with him. I remain watchful of their activities.”

Faraj nodded, as he recalled the princes who had bargained for humiliating terms from Gharnatah.

“You do this at the behest of your master?”

“Princes Abd al-Haqq and his cousin Prince Hammu are rival princes, once contenders for the throne of al-Maghrib el-Aska. My Sultan trusts such men to do his bidding. I do not. For now, they serve him. How much longer shall they remain in his sway? Your Sultan is weak. He shall not last long on the throne. I would be at the side of the man who must replace him.”

“I tell you, I do not seek the throne!”

Faraj’s mare whickered and tossed her head at his tone, but he calmed her with a reassuring touch.

Uthman returned his stare and then shrugged. “We waste the hours here. We should ride now.”

Faraj nodded. “If the Volunteers of the Faith are with us, then command your men to follow. If you have chosen the wrong side, you may find the Marinid princes are not weak. They’ll see to it that your master strips you of your command, or worse.”

The men left the citadel in a long column down the sloping hill. At its base, they rode the horses northward to the city gates. The sea breeze came onshore, as though it hastened their departure.

***

A few days later, the awestruck denizens of the large village of al-Atsha, which rose from the floodplain outside Gharnatah, watched Faraj’s scouts from the southern ramparts. The villagers closed the gates against the approaching warriors.

Uthman cursed and slapped his thigh with his riding stick. “Do they mean for us to lay siege to this place?”

“No!” Faraj ordered. “I shall not fall upon my own people as a pack of ravenous wolves.”

The sun reached its zenith. Someone in Faraj’s company shouted, “Look to the northern hills!”

In a flurry of dust, riders and their mounts fled from the northeastern gates of the village, which straddled two sloping mounds. It could be none other than Sultan Nasr and the Marinid princes.

Faraj led the chase. A splinter group from the Sultan’s warriors broke off from the others and wheeled their horses around. The Sultan’s Galician guards led the way to the capital, discernible by their distinctive red capes billowing on the breeze. A small portion of cavalrymen charged Faraj’s host, their swords held high, their lusty battle cries resounding in the crisp afternoon air.

Faraj yelled at Khalid, who rode beside him, “No time for this folly! We have to stop Nasr now or we’ll never get to him. Follow me!”

Khalid spurred his horse on. The Gharnati cavalry engaged most of Faraj’s forces and the Marinids. Shouts and the clash of steel filled the floodplain outside al-Atsha. The horses kicked up mud and obscured the orchard fields surrounding the village. Faraj could not view the battle, even if he had wished it.

He and his men came down a slope and sighted Gharnatah in the distance. The Sultan and his Galicians were at the outskirts, riding hard for the city’s main entryway, the
Bab Ilbira
. A strong midday gust picked up and whipped the hood of Nasr’s mantle from his yellow hair. Just outside the gate, Nasr’s horse buckled. The beast went down hard, its legs jerking spastically. The fall sent its rider tumbling.

Faraj ducked his head and dug his heels into his mount’s flank. Someone rode hard against him, determined to stop him. Sweat coated the sagging jowls beneath the man’s helmet.

At the last moment, Faraj drew his sword and met the clash of Prince Hammu’s scimitar against him. He lifted his foot from the stirrup and kicked out at the Marinid prince. Hammu evaded him and whirled again.

Faraj cursed under his breath, as he defended himself. Up ahead, one of the Galicians wheeled his mount around and returned to his master’s side. Nasr did not move.

“No! Damn you. I won’t let you escape, Nasr. Khalid, after him!” Faraj bellowed.

His warning came too late for his captain, who rode the Sultan’s man down. The rest of the Galicians circled and protected their master. Nasr staggered to his feet. He shouted orders to his Galicians, who rode toward Khalid and Faraj, while he hobbled the short distance to the capital. When he breached the
Bab Ilbira
on foot, the Galician guard bolted for the city as well.

Prince Hammu broke off his attack and sped in the same direction. A lone rider followed him, likely his cousin. Khalid flung his dagger, but the blade glanced off Prince Hammu’s shoulder. He ducked and entered the gate in a flurry of dirt, followed closely by the other man.

Gharnatah’s soldiers lined the massive outer walls. Archers overlooked the plain from towers built up to the height of the city walk. Their bows at the ready, they aimed high. Faraj pulled back on the reins. At the foot of the walls, in a morass of wet earth, the Sultan’s fallen mount whinnied in its death throes. A flurry of bolts descended from the battlements. Arrows struck the beast in its neck and forelegs. Its movements ceased.

With a wave to Khalid, Faraj wheeled his horse around. They sped across the plains, arrows whistling behind them.

Princess Fatima

Malaka, Al-Andalus: Shawwal 709 AH – Sha`ban 710 AH (Malaga, Andalusia: March AD 1310 – January AD 1311)

For weeks unending, Fatima waited for word from Gharnatah of her husband’s survival, of her brother’s fate. She might lose Faraj or Nasr, or both men in the ensuing conflict. She had envisioned the possibility. She once thought the end of Muhammad’s tyrannical reign would bring peace to her family and the Sultanate. Now, those who shared blood prepared to shed each other’s again.

On the tenth morning after Faraj had gone, she stared at the ceiling above her bed, lost in thought, as she had been every day since his departure. Fear for his safety consumed her. Yet, the silent tears that streaked down her cheek and wet her pillow were not for him alone.

Thoughts of Muhammad’s suffering pained her more than she had expected. He was a monstrous despot, but they were brother and sister. When he went into exile at Munakkab, she had silently questioned Nasr’s wisdom in releasing him from the prison at
al-Quasaba
. Deep inside, her heart recoiled at the thought of any family member, even a man as dangerous as Muhammad, consigned to the darkness of a dank, vermin-infested cell.

Now, questions tortured her. Were Nasr’s violent actions any different from when their brother had plotted their father’s death?

She swung her feet off the bed and buried her face in her hands. Arguments vied within her tormented mind. Nasr could have spared Muhammad and consigned him forever to the dungeon in
al-Quasaba
. The conspirators had failed and they deserved what is due to all traitors. Their actions and Muhammad’s response had left Nasr bereft of choices. Still, he had sworn a sacred oath. He had broken his word. No, the conspirators broke their word. They had sworn oaths of loyalty when Nasr ascended the throne. A throne he had stolen, with her help.

Her folly had led their family to this moment. Whatever madness ruled her brother Muhammad, she had not escaped its reach. Recriminations taunted her. She let the tears fall unchecked. What had she done in choosing Nasr as an instrument of her vengeance against Muhammad? Now he or her husband would die. Their blood, the shame of it would be upon her head.

She fell to her knees and bowed her head. Surely Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate would hear her private prayer, even if she did not follow the rituals now.

“Merciful God, I have squandered my days in intrigue and revenge. I have forsaken duty and love, embraced strife and discord. Now I pray, let me live the rest of my life in peace. Protect and watch over those whom I love. Wherever they may be, let my husband and my brother know peace. If it is Your Will that I must lose one of them this day, let Your bidding be done. But if it must be one of them, please, I pray, let my husband live.”

A knock came at the door. She wiped her cheeks and smoothed the folds of her garments, before she answered.

Two brown-haired girls swathed in gold silk launched themselves at her.

“Leila! Fatimah! What are you both doing up so early? It is not even dawn.”

Leila’s chubby hands patted her cheeks. “Why are you sad today?”

“Your grandmother could never be sad, Leila, not when you and your sister are here to gladden her heart.” Baraka stood in the doorway and nodded to Fatima. “I thought a visit from the little princesses might cheer you, my Sultana.”

Fatima said, “You were kind to bring them.”

Baraka inclined her head and closed the door behind her.

Fatima spent the rest of the day with her granddaughters, delighting in their eager, precocious natures at just two years old. They were both the image of their father Ismail, but each one had her grandmother’s eyes.

For them, for the security of all her descendants, Fatima vowed to set things right. She could not stop the confrontation between Faraj and Nasr. Now, she would do all she could to protect her heirs and strengthen the bonds between her family.

Hours later, when the children rested their dark heads on her shoulders and drifted to sleep, Fatima stood beside the window and looked to the north.

She whispered against Leila’s tiny brow, “Let him come home to me.”

***

Ten months later, Fatima stood on the battlements between
al-Jabal Faro
and her residence. Her eyes scanned the horizon and the city below. A bitter wind stabbed at her flesh through folds of clothing. With a sigh, she bowed her head and clasped her hands together. Her lips offered an oft-repeated plea.

Familiar hands settled on her shoulders. She looked over her shoulder at Ismail. He rested his chin atop her head and studied the view in silence.

“Do not fear, my son. He lives, I can feel it.”

“Then why has he not returned home? He has besieged Gharnatah with the aid of other governors.
Al-Qal’at al-Hamra
has not fallen to them. Nasr has sought the aid of the Castillans. What if they have arrived? My father could be dead.”

She hushed him. “We must wait.”

She and Ismail lingered on the walls until midday, when the call to prayer sounded. She turned and hugged him. She clasped his hands in hers.

“Go to the mosque. Say a prayer for your father and brother’s safe return, for Gharnatah.”

He looked beyond her. “I don’t have to. They’re home at last.”

Fatima whirled and looked beyond the northeastern gate. A flurry of dust coated the plains. Hooves rumbled and pounded the dry earth. The gateway opened and admitted a large contingent of riders. Even from this distance, she made out the green and white banners of the Sultan unfurled over their heads. Beneath them, the standard of the governor of Malaka billowed.

Ismail started toward
al-Jabal Faro
and down the citadel’s steps along the sloping incline. Her feet stayed rooted to the spot. All coherent thought fled from her mind, as though scattered by the sea breeze. Cheers echoed, but the boisterous sound did not calm her fears.

Only the sight of Faraj riding beside their second son, with Ismail walking between the pair, restored her sensibilities. Her second son Muhammad slid down from his mount and rushed to her. He drew her into his burly embrace. She kissed both his cheeks and forehead, before she looked him over.

He grasped her shoulders. “I’m well,
Ummi
, not a scratch.”

He and Ismail clasped each other’s forearms and continued along the walkway.

In the glare of sunlight, which formed a halo around his grizzled head, Faraj stared at Fatima.

She bowed at his side. “It pleases my heart to see that you have returned, husband.”

He dismounted with a grunt. “Nasr lives. Have no fear.”

“I knew you both lived. I would have felt it if you did not. All my concern was for you.”

“It should have been for your brother, Muhammad. The Galicians drowned him in the courtyard pool of your father’s palace, within a week of the siege. I learned of his death a month later.”

Fatima’s hand covered the place where her heart thumped against her chest. She whispered a silent prayer for Muhammad. She had not felt the moment of his passing. Still, she regretted his demise at Nasr’s hands.

Faraj urged his mount onward at a trot. She fell into step beside him. She reveled in the nearness of him. God had answered her prayers. He would allow her the chance to renew her commitment to Faraj and their marriage. She would never squander His blessings again.

“Don’t you want to know what happened, Fatima?”

“If you wish to tell me. I had thought you would refresh yourself before revealing the news to our family.”

Faraj shook his head. “We besieged Nasr at Gharnatah. After a month, we learned of your brother Muhammad’s final fate. Nasr managed to send word to King Fernando of Castilla-Leon. His emissaries arrived seven months later, but they did not do as Nasr intended. Instead of defending him against the siege, the Castillans demanded that we come into the city under a flag of truce. A small contingent of us, including the sons of our daughters who had joined me, entered Gharnatah. I spoke for us, laid bare our grievance before the remaining members of the
Diwan al-Insha
and the Sultan regarding the solemn vow, which the Sultan had broken by killing his brother.

“At first, they would hear none of it. The new
Hajib
Ibn al-Hajj, whom I believe is a secret Christian, proclaimed the Sultan was the only power in Al-Andalus and could do as he willed. However, the rest of the
Diwan
defied the prime minister and said Nasr should have held to his oath. His actions had plunged the Sultanate into civil war. Nasr could not deny his crime in killing Muhammad and breaking his oath. We could do nothing about it, since Muhammad was already dead. Ibn al-Hajj wanted everyone jailed, including me. Nasr bowed to the wishes of his Castillan master, who dictated an accord. I have renewed the oath of loyalty to Nasr. I remained at Gharnatah for another six weeks until he permitted me to leave.”