Sultana's Legacy (42 page)
Time had been as kind to Hayfa and Samara, as it had been to Baraka. Like glittering jewels, the
jawari
sat amidst their opulent surroundings. Hardly a wrinkle marred Hayfa, her opal-shaped eyes set wide in her dark rounded face, or her counterpart Samara, whose alabaster skin glistened like pearls. Baraka outshone them all, her hennaed hair pulled back to reveal a radiant emerald gaze. When the trio bowed, Fatima returned the respectful gesture.
Fatima said, “Your invitation surprised me. We have not always been sociable, though we share a common bond in our devotion to my husband.”
Baraka snorted at this. Fatima and the others dismissed her pretense at outrage.
Hayfa leaned forward. “It is for love of the master that we help you.”
Fatima stared at Baraka, whose smile widened. “I have entrusted them with your secret. I had to.”
Fatima nodded. “My son Ismail has returned. I must wait until he departs at the end of the week before I leave Malaka.”
Hayfa replied, “As soon as he is gone, you and the master must flee.”
“Take only what you need,” Samara added.
Fatima shook her head. The years of unease between them melted away, as if they had never existed.
Baraka asked, “Have you written to your father’s queen?”
Fatima nodded. “Yes. It may be some time before Shams ed-Duna sends a reply. I cannot count on her. At al-Bajara, I shall get word to the Sultan.”
Baraka clapped her hands. “At last! Justice shall fall upon your son’s head.”
“No! Nasr shall know only that I have left Malaka for my husband’s health. I cannot tell him about Ismail’s actions. It would ruin my son. Nasr would march against him and strip him of his birthright.”
Baraka drew back, the disgust apparent in her flaring nostrils and the sneer on her lips. “How can you care about that after his betrayal?”
“You are not a mother, Baraka. I don’t expect you to understand.”
“You’ll let him get away with this treachery?”
Fatima shook her head. “Baraka, he is my son.”
Those simple words explained away all the turmoil she had experienced these last weeks. Despite her life lessons about the values of family and loyalty, Ismail had succumbed to the same temptations that destroyed the lives of her brothers Muhammad and Nasr.
She had been the instrument of Muhammad’s ruin, so determined to avenge his cruel murder of their father. Yet in her recklessness, she had also paved the way for Nasr’s destruction. She would not allow the same fate to consume her son. This time, there would be no vengeance, only regret. She would sooner harm herself than her firstborn.
Flustered, Baraka threw her hands in the air. Fatima reached for her fingers across the table. “I count you among friends. If you honor the bond we share, do not oppose me.”
Her gaze flitted over the other women. “I must have the promise from each of you that you shall help me for love of Faraj alone, not to avenge the wrongs our son has done to him. When we leave this place, you shall live by Ismail’s favor alone. Do not jeopardize your futures for my sake.”
Baraka frowned, Hayfa sighed and Samara looked away, but then they each made the promise.
Then Hayfa said, “You must leave under cover of darkness, perhaps when the guard at
al-Jabal Faro
changes the night watch.”
Fatima nodded in agreement.
Samara cleared her throat. “We shall distract the men.”
Her voice wavered, but resolve glowed in the Castillan Jewess’ gaze.
Fatima frowned. “How?”
As one, the trio stood. Their fingers rustled silk and fastenings. Within minutes, their garments pooled at their feet. Fatima stood speechless, at the sight of their bodies. Each woman was at least the same age as her husband. Yet their bellies remained maiden flat, as neither of them had borne children. Their skin glowed with youthful vigor and health.
Baraka sensed Fatima’s discomfort and laughed. “I told you, I’ll never grow old!”
***
Fatima walked to her room before she planned to join the others at dinner. She met Ismail just outside her door. A crimson mantle swirled around his broad shoulders. His jaw slackened as he approached her and bowed. Reddened fury suffused his features.
“Are you unwell? Did your meeting with the market inspector and the Marinid commander go as intended?”
He snapped, “It did not!” She raised her eyebrows at his clipped tone and he mumbled an apology.
“Forgive me. I am tired. I must go to the
hammam
. Shall I see you at dinner?”
“Of course, my son.”
She entered her room and closed the door. Ismail’s footfalls retreated. She stifled a sob behind her hand.
“Why do you cry, my beloved?”
Faraj stared at her across the room. She crossed the cedar floor and sank down beside him on the bed. There was so much she wanted to share. Love for him kept her silent. She kissed his brow instead.
He cupped her cheek. “Tell me.”
“We have to leave this place for a time.”
His free hand found hers. Their fingers interlaced, his gaze held steady. “If you say we must go, then we shall go. I trust you, Fatima.”
She pressed her lips to his. She wondered at his easy acquiescence. Did he have an inkling of Ismail’s betrayal? Had he overheard Haniya’s confession? Whatever the reason, she would learn further in time. Only the immediate future mattered. If he stayed at her side, she knew she could withstand the dark days to follow.
***
An hour afterward, Fatima dined with Abeer, Leeta and her husband Marzuq. Basma and Haniya stood in the alcove behind Fatima. Over the rim of a cup of somewhat bitter pomegranate juice, Fatima smiled at the banter between Leeta and Marzuq. Long after she left Malaka, she wanted to remember her happy household as it had been. Whatever discord lingered between her and Leeta, she would never forget the treasurer’s devotion.
When Fatima set down her cup and reached for an uneaten bowl of
‘tharid
, Basma said over her shoulder, “My Sultana knows the spiciness of the lamb does not agree with her stomach.”
Despite the truthfulness of her claim, Fatima did not appreciate the reminder.
Leeta looked up from her bowl of stew and glared at Basma. “How dare you speak so to your mistress? When I attended her, even I was never so bold. When I dared, I deserved the lash. The Sultana was always kind to me. She is still too good, I suppose, to have you whipped for your insolence.”
Fatima stared at her in wonderment. She had never expected Leeta would speak a kind word of her again.
Then Marzuq clutched his belly and tumbled forward. He knocked the
‘tharid
aside. His features reddened and contorted.
Leeta screamed as a crimson stain trickled from Abeer’s nostrils. Then, Faraj’s treasurer clutched her stomach, too. Blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth.
At once, Fatima understood the threat and knew its source. Poison.
Leeta’s last breath escaped in a strangled whimper. She sagged beside her husband, who already slumped lifeless on the table. Abeer clawed at her throat before she screamed once, but never again.
Fatima tried to speak or stand, desperate to aid them. Her limbs would not cooperate. She fought for every breath.
Haniya appeared at her side and shook her. “My Sultana? What is happening? Please, speak to me!”
The room blurred before Fatima’s eyes. Someone had poisoned her too, but with nothing as potent as the drug that coursed the blood of the others. Her fingers knocked aside the pomegranate juice. Basma had brought her the cup. Fatima swallowed and whispered the servant’s name.
Heavy, distinct footfalls approached and another familiar voice sounded.
“You’ve always been so clever,
Ummi
. Yes, Basma’s done exactly what I told her to do.”
“Prince Ismail?” Haniya’s voice seemed so far away. “Was it not enough that you betrayed your parents? You enticed my sister to do your evil work, too. Basma, the Sultana has ever been kind to us. She rescued us from cruel enslavement to the Ashqilula, yet you have deceived her. Why?”
“She deserves her fate. Our lives shall be better under Prince Ismail. He has promised me I shall be governess of his children, not that old whore Baraka. You don’t know the things the Sultana has done to us, sister, the lies she has told.”
The bitterness in Basma’s voice did not surprise Fatima. She had lived with dread that this day would come for decades.
“What lies?” Haniya’s voice exploded in agony.
“About our mother. She was the Sultana Fatima’s spy. The Ashqilula killed our mother because of it. Our brother Faisal knew, he was old enough to remember how it happened. The Sultana did not take us in because of the goodness in her heart. She kept us close to hide her secret. Faisal told me, before his death. I killed him. He should not have kept silent, while we served the one who is responsible for our mother’s death.”
“You murdered our brother all those years ago? How could you, Basma? How could you destroy your own family? You’re no better than Prince Ismail.”
Prone, listless, Fatima could not prevent the horror unfolding around her. Haniya dashed for something on the table. A long glimmer of silver appeared in her hand, before she plunged it into her sister’s chest. Basma crumpled at her twin’s feet. Fatima’s mouth refused to obey her mind. Her whimpered protest came too late. Haniya sobbed and stabbed the knife into her heart, too.
In the throes of her torpor, Fatima stared at the marble ceiling above. She remained silent, in the stillness of the room, among the dead.
The Final Coup
Princess Fatima
Malaka, Al-Andalus: Rajab 712 AH (Malaga, Andalusia: October AD 1312)
Fatima awoke in her room. Sunlight and cool wind spilled through the lattice. The spot beside her in the bed was cold and empty.
Ismail hovered beside her, a long scratch gouged into his cheek. Had she done that to him?
“I’m sorry it had to be this way,
Ummi
. I knew Leeta would remain loyal to you. Marzuq was devoted to my father. As for Abeer, I did not intend to harm her, but it would have looked suspicious if Basma stopped her from eating the
‘tharid
, too. Still, she was only a concubine.”
His callous tone, so reminiscent of Fatima’s brother Muhammad did not matter now. She asked, “Where’s your father?”
“He is safe, I promise you. I have sent a letter to my uncle in Gharnatah explaining how my father’s recent troubles have left him incapacitated. I expect the Sultan shall confer the governorship upon me soon.”
She gripped the bedpost and sat up. “You think I don’t know what you’ve done. This was never about your father or the governorship of Malaka.”
He bowed at her side. “You shall excuse me. There are other matters I must attend to.”
“I’m coming with you.” She swung her legs off the bed and stood. “What do you intend to do now?”
“As if you do not know. That harridan Baraka, she actually flew at me and started scratching my face. She and her companions shall pay dearly for uniting against me.”
“They love your father as I do. You would not understand such love or sacrifice. You think only of your selfish interests.”
He left the room and she followed.
“Get back,
Ummi
!” The snarl deep in his throat did not frighten her. Nothing could ever make her afraid again.
She glared at his back. “If you can murder those who have loved your father, then by the Prophet’s beard, I have the strength to watch you.”
They emerged in the full glare of midday. She shielded her eyes from the sun.
Baraka, Hayfa and Samara knelt under a pavilion, their hands tied at their backs. Behind them, men from
al-Jabal Faro
stood, with bowstrings stretched taut between their fingers.
Baraka called, “You see, Sultana? I told you I would never grow old!”
At Ismail’s signal, his men strangled the women. None of them struggled or cried out. Fatima refused to dishonor their courage with whimpers. Soon three bodies slumped on the marble.
When she sniffled, Ismail muttered, “I would have spared you this sight,
Ummi
.”
She spat in his face. “Don’t say it. ‘
Ummi
’ – the word is meaningless to you! You’ve betrayed your father. You’ve killed his devoted servants! You’re no longer my son.”
Shawwal 713 AH (February AD 1314)
A year passed and a bitter, wintry chill descended on Malaka, the coldest in Fatima’s long memory. Blustery currents tore the leaves from treetops and ravaged the flowerbeds, scattering their remnants through the unkempt grounds. The stench of decay and death lingered in the frigid air.
Then strange odors intermingled, a potent smell not unlike a mixture of ash and rotten eggs. Late in the evening torches burned bright, illuminating the faces of men who bustled to and from
al-Jabal Faro
, sometimes with carts of white or yellow crystalline material. The sounds of metal against metal and men preparing for battle rang through Fatima’s home. Cut off from the outside world with no one to trust, she languished as the months of loneliness crept by.
One day, the door creaked and faint footsteps padded across the wood. “I’m hungry.”
At the plaintive voice of Asiya, Haniya’s daughter Fatima looked up from where she sat on the floor. Strands of black hair almost concealed her almond-shaped eyes from view. Born almost five years earlier, Asiya was the image of her mother, but her quiet nature reminded Fatima of her father Khalid of al-Hakam also. With the death of both her parents, Fatima cared for the girl.
She reached for Asiya, who hugged her. “Aren’t you hungry too, my Sultana? You haven’t eaten today.”
Fatima nodded. “You are good to remind me. We must both remain strong. Go to the kitchen.”