Sultana's Legacy (39 page)
Ismail, who stood beside his mother, embraced her. “I still can’t believe someone tried to kill Father, even though I was there to witness it.”
“Tell me what happened.”
After he described the events leading up to the assassination attempt, Fatima sighed. “The loss of Khalid of al-Hakam shall pain your father. Khalid must have fought bravely to defend your father until the last. He gave his life for Faraj’s sake. He has left us too soon. Who was the assassin? Is he anyone from Malaka?”
“No one knows him. The man is dead. I killed the assassin,
Ummi
. He ran through the marketplace. He could not evade me.”
Niranjan commented, “You and your father’s men should have brought the man to the citadel for questioning.”
Ismail scowled at him. “My apologies for my lack of forethought, but I thought only of avenging my father’s death when I cornered the assassin.”
“But your father did not die. You must have realized he was still alive. You said he was still breathing after the assassin felled him,” Niranjan replied, his eyebrows upraised.
Tension enlivened his tone and he seemed revived. Ismail’s frown deepened, as the eunuch held his regard without flinching.
Fatima nodded. “It matters little now. The one who tried to murder him is dead. We must be grateful he cannot harm my husband or anyone else.”
She reached for Haniya’s hand. “I am sorry your Asiya did not have more time in which to know Khalid. My husband lost his captain, but your daughter lost a loving and attentive father.”
Haniya bowed her head. “My daughter is too young to understand the loss. When she is older, I shall tell her of Khalid’s bravery.”
Fatima said to her, “Please, pack some of my garments. I’m going to Gharnatah.”
“What?” Ismail sputtered.
Despite his outburst, Haniya bowed and went to Fatima’s chamber.
Fatima repeated Niranjan’s suspicions about Nasr’s involvement to her son.
Ismail shook his head. “What difference can it make if you go to Gharnatah? If the Sultan wants to rid himself of Father by treachery, I don’t see how you can persuade him otherwise.”
She patted his cheek. “Your uncle Nasr owes me a very large debt. It is time we settled it.”
Old Debts Repaid
Princess Fatima
Gharnatah, Al-Andalus: Shawwal 711 AH (Granada, Andalusia: March AD 1312)
On a bleak gray morning, the camel caravan slowed at the outskirts of Gharnatah. The endless, whispering wind rustled pebbles before the ground rumbled. Gritty dirt gusted and stung Fatima’s eyes. Her camel snorted and scented the air. From beneath the black-and-green striped
hawdaj
, she leaned forward and patted the neck of the dark brown animal.
Up ahead, the caravan leader bellowed to make himself heard above his snorting animals. “I don’t care how tired the beasts are! Get them into Gharnatah now!”
The earth hitched and trembled again. In the distance, dust hovered in a thick, swirling haze. The caravan descended the hillock that overlooked the floodplain outside the capital. Shepherds and goatherds drove their flocks by the hundreds, while merchants jostled each other for entry into the city first, cursing and hollering in their haste.
The sentries on the ramparts seemed more intent on keeping people out than defending Gharnatah from any possible threat. When the caravan halted again, Fatima leaned forward and called for the boy who guided her camel.
“What is the delay? What is happening?”
He looked toward the dust cloud, before his eyes widened. The youth scrambled back the route they had come. She yelped and grabbed the rope he had discarded.
Over the heads of others, the caravan leader hollered. “Make way, you fools! The Sultan’s sister travels in my retinue.”
Someone cursed and spat at him. “Liar! You just don’t want to lose your silk stores to the Castillans. You’ll wait your turn.”
The ground quaked. Panicked screams sent the crowd surging forward and the caravan with them. On the way to Gharnatah, Fatima had learned from the caravan leader that the Castillans attacked the town of Martus three days before. The peace treaty of their King had ended and as before, they resumed hostilities at the border, perhaps sensing Nasr’s weakened bargaining position.
Bolts groaned on their hinges and a loud creak followed. It sent a rush of joy through the waiting crowd. In waves, those who sought refuge within the city limits spilled through the
Bab Ilbira
. Through narrow roads teeming with onlookers and the labyrinthine streets of the
Qaysariyya
, still bustling with trade despite any threat Gharnatah might face, the caravan mounted the summit of the
Sabika
.
After she threatened them with the Sultan’s wrath at the delay of his sister, the citadel guards cautiously allowed Fatima entry to the precincts of
al-Qal’at al-Hamra
.
The patrol outside the palace proved less pliable, even with her promises of retribution. Their captain held to a solitary refrain despite anything Fatima said. “The Sultan is with his council. No one may disturb him.”
“You’ll be the first to hang when I tell my brother how you’ve kept me from him.” She glowered at the man from atop the camel’s back, but he remained unmoved.
***
After more than two hours, Nasr emerged from the council chamber with his ministers. Fatima demanded that the guards alert him to her presence. He came out of the palace and found her alone.
“Fatima! By the Prophet’s beard, what are you doing here?”
“Forgive my haggard appearance, noble brother. I knew you would not fail to hear the entreaties of a most loyal and beloved sister. Your overzealous guardsmen would not allow it.”
His face pinched tight, Nasr scowled in the direction of the soldiers in the courtyard. Then he took her hand on his arm and walked with her.
His Galician guards fell in on either side of them. Beneath lowered eyelids, she counted the seven men. There should have been eight. Her heart sank as if confirming Niranjan’s suspicions.
“One of your bodyguards is missing, my Sultan.”
Nasr halted beside her. “Why do you comment upon it?” The pitch of his tone rose higher than usual.
She halted and scrutinized his features for clues. He offered none.
“Are there not always eight Galicians in your company?”
A sheepish grin transformed his face to the boyish flush of his youth. “You always notice every change. My captain Adulfo has been ill, but I hope to have him at my side again.”
He led her to his quarters, where luminous silk, glittering embroidery, and plush carpets covered almost every surface. The Sultan sent word to his chief eunuch to prepare a room for her and ordered a meal.
While he dined on roasted lamb chunks, flatbread, and lentils, Fatima ate little.
Nasr relaxed and swirled the contents of his cup.
She asked, “When did you start drinking wine, brother?”
He swallowed a mouthful. “Only on happy occasions such as this one, I promise.”
The redness and enlarged veins in his puffy face belied Nasr’s claim. Yet, she could not confront his falsehood about the alcohol consumption. Other untruths remained unresolved.
“How can you say this is a happy time, brother? The Castillan army marches on our capital. What do you intend to do about it?”
“The
Hajib
Ibn al-Hajj sees to the defense of the city. I have also sent messengers to my faithful governors, demanding their aid.”
“Do you count my husband among those loyal men?”
A deepening hue flushed Nasr’s face. His insipid grin had returned. He refilled his goblet.
“Of course I do. Why would I think otherwise? After our unfortunate disagreement, he has since renewed his oaths to me. Why do you ask me such a thing? Has some concern about your husband brought you to Gharnatah?”
She reached into her satchel at her feet. She placed the dagger Niranjan had retrieved on the table before him.
Giddy with drink, he asked, “You don’t mean to murder me?”
He laughed again, seeming to think the idea very funny. She did not share his mirth.
“Someone tried to kill Faraj a few days ago, Nasr. By the Will of God, the assassin did not succeed.”
She shared the details of the attempt on her husband’s life, as Ismail had relayed them. Nasr recoiled in horror, his eyes blinking with incredulity. The breath seemed caught in his throat and he struggled with his speech. Perhaps he was a better liar than she had ever been.
“I am shocked, shocked and saddened, but glad that your son caught the man who did this.”
“There is more, Nasr. The assassin stabbed him with this very blade. Look at the hilt!”
She pushed the dagger by the blade toward him. He flinched, but he would not reach for it. He stared at her, slack-jawed.
“Fatima, you don’t mean to accuse one of my men? That is why you brought this here, why you asked about the Galician guards? No, no, no, none of them could have done this.”
Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. How could he lie to her so easily, after all she had done for him?
“I have ever been loyal to you, my Sultan. When your mother, my dearest friend died, she commended you to my care. I have been faithful to you, Nasr, protected you ….”
“Fatima, stop this.”
“No, you must listen to me! I love you, flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. I love Faraj equally well. He has my heart. I beg you, if you have ever loved me as a sister, do not take him from me. I would be lost without him. You owe me this, Nasr, for all the deeds and misdeeds I have committed on your behalf.”
“Fatima, I swear to you, I had no hand in this!”
Nasr set down his cup and stood. He raked his hands through thinning blonde hair.
He muttered, “How can I prove myself to you?”
Then he pulled her to her feet. “You cannot lose faith in me now.”
He dragged her out of his chamber and into the courtyard where the Galician guards protected the only entrance to the Sultan’s residence. He had his men draw their daggers, same as the one she had shown him.
“You see, not a blade missing among them!”
She shook her head. “One of your men is not here. You don’t have to pretend for my sake. I know Faraj has dared your ire in the past….”
He pulled her behind him again, beyond the confines of the palace. They entered the precincts of the royal
madina
where those who served the Sultan dwelled.
They entered a whitewashed house, suffused with the scent of camphor. A little girl in the first chamber yelped when she saw them and spilled water from a basin that brimmed in her hands. She darted beyond a linen curtain. Nasr followed, tugging Fatima after him.
On a bed in the center of the room, a pale man reclined against the comfort of a woman’s lap. The child stood trembling in the corner.
The woman gasped. “My Sultan!”
“Be at ease, I know your husband is still racked with fever. I do not call him to his duty just yet. Where are the garments he wears in my service?”
The woman pointed to a chest in the corner. Atop the clothes, glittering in its curved leather sheath, a dagger rested.
Nasr gave it to Fatima for her brief examination.
Then he nodded to the woman. “Tell Adulfo I make prayers tonight for his improvement.”
“I shall, my Sultan. Thank you for your kindness. I promise when Adulfo recovers, he shall be your worthy captain again.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Outside the house, Nasr clutched Fatima’s fingers in his grasp. “Say you believe me. Castilla-Leon is at my gates and my own people want to see me destroyed. Don’t turn from me, too.”
***
The Castillans tested Nasr’s resolve, as they held his city under siege. Fatima remained trapped for six months, unable to send word to her children in Malaka or receive news from them. She worried for their father and prayed each day that Faraj lived and his health improved.
Her doubts lingered, but not about Nasr. He could not have arranged the assassination of her husband. Yet, if he did not, who had done it?
Gharnatah, Al-Andalus: Jumada al-Ula 712 AH (Granada, Andalusia: September AD 1312)
A hot wind hastened Fatima’s approach to the Sultan’s residence under the watchful eyes of the Galician guards. Their captain Adulfo bowed reverently and averted his gaze, as he had every morning since his full recovery.
A brazier emitted its fragrant warmth. Nasr shivered underneath a woolen blanket, seated on a chair beside the window.
Fatima said, “The peace of God be with you, my Sultan. What news of the siege?”
“Fernando of Castilla-Leon is dead. The
Cortes
has recalled the army. It seems the ministers have no heart for fighting without their master. I hear the new ruler Alfonso, is a child.”
“He is a babe in arms, born last summer with his uncle and cousin as regents. I remember his birth year because the Castillan merchants at Malaka traded heavily with us for extravagant gifts in his name. I am surprised the Castillan ministers accepted Prince Juan, the butcher of Tarif, as one of Alfonso’s regents.”
She reached for Nasr’s icy hand beneath the coverlet. “Such developments do not concern us, except it seems Castilla-Leon is no longer a concern for you.”
He trembled. “Now, you shall leave me again.”
“I’ll never leave you, dear brother, not truly. We are one flesh.”
Her fingers smoothed the crinkles and dark circles that marred the skin beneath his eyes. A sigh escaped her.
Nasr grinned. “Do I look so terrible?”
Despite her help over the previous months, he struggled with his addiction to wine still. She prayed he might overcome it one day.
He cupped her hand in his against his cheek. “Think of me, sister.”
She bent and kissed his brow. “I always do, my Sultan.”