Sultana's Legacy (43 page)

Asiya did so. She returned with three slices of flatbread, lentils, and chunks of roasted lamb. Fatima broke each piece of flatbread in half and shared it with Asiya. It tasted like sawdust. She chewed and swallowed it, along with the rest of the meal.

Fatima pulled Asiya on to her lap and crooned softly to the little girl, who played with the rings on her mistress’ fingers, until she tired and drifted to sleep. Fatima groaned and lifted her, placing her on the bed.

Ismail entered, for the first time in the months since he had shattered all Fatima’s hopes for his future. He scanned the unkempt room, pillows strewn across the cedar floor, dust motes clinging to every surface including the rumpled bedding, before taking in her appearance. She ignored his gasp and turned to the window.

“
Ummi
. How do you fare?”

She did not answer.

“Forgive my absence. I have been with Father.”

“Where is he?”

 “He lives. I promised he would come to no harm.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “For once, since you turned to lies and folly, you have not deceived me. I know he lives.”

She clasped her hands together and strolled toward him. He stepped back once and then again. Relentless, she kept coming. He bumped against the door behind him. They stood close together. Each inhalation drew the scent of flames and gunpowder deep into her nostrils.

“The sights and sounds of men preparing for war have filled this place for weeks. You did not betray your father for Malaka. You are preparing to march on Gharnatah, to usurp my brother Nasr’s rule. You seek the throne.”

At night, dreams had tormented Fatima, remembrances of the past. The gypsy’s tent and the tealeaves. A dire prophecy she had ignored.

“You carry a son within your womb. One day, your son shall become the Sultan of Gharnatah. Such is the fate that awaits you, whether you would wish it or not.”

Ismail’s gaze fell away before it met hers again. “Why shouldn’t I have Gharnatah? Through you, the blood of Sultans flows in my veins.”

She framed his face between his hands. “Yes, through me. Oh my Ismail, have you not learned the lessons of those kingly lives? My grandfather knew little peace before the end. Ceaseless struggles against Castilla-Leon and civil war nearly broke him. My dear father murdered by his favored son. Have you forgotten? I know you cannot forget Muhammad, the only son of my mother, driven to madness in his lust for power. Then poor Nasr, the last of my father’s beloved heirs. I bullied him into seeking the crown. In the end, his love of strong drink ruled him. Has the tragedy of their lives not shown you the folly of what you seek? To wear the crown of Gharnatah is a heavy, perhaps perilous burden for any man. I would not choose such an end for you.”

He wrenched himself from her hold. “Then why do you have so little faith in me? I am strong, just like your father. Do you not often say how I remind you of him, molded in his very image? I have ruled Malaka well. Don’t you believe I can rule Gharnatah too? This is my destiny!”

“No, Ismail, it is a path you have chosen to walk alone.”

He stabbed a finger in her face. “You’re just jealous of my ambition! Look at you! You once told me your father said if you had been a man, you would have been a great Sultan. You could never aspire to such a goal and you want to deny me the power of it. It shall be mine!”

She shook her head. “How can you be so blind? Do you only see the lure of power now? Do you forget that no Sultan since the time of my grandfather has borne his crown easily until the end?”

“I shall do it! You said it yourself, Nasr is unfit to rule. The people need a new, stronger leader. I am governor of Malaka, grandson of Sultan Muhammad
al-Fakih
. If Nasr submits to me, I shall allow him a peaceable exile. If he rallies his army against my supporters, I shall destroy him.”

“He is your uncle! Does the sanctity of family mean nothing to you?”

“My uncle Muhammad was your brother by the blood of your mother and father! Where was your concern for family when you conspired to remove him from his throne? Did you ever shed one tear of regret when Nasr blinded him?”

She drew back under his unforgiving gaze. Now, he advanced. “You recoil from me. Everything I have done is because of all I learned from you. Your machinations have led us to this point.”

Her hands covered her ears in a vain attempt to drown out his incessant accusations. “Who was it that conspired with Nasr to destroy the rightful Sultan? Who put Nasr on the throne? It was you! If you cannot bear to hear where your lies and folly have led us, then you are a coward like him. From my childhood, you promised a great fate awaited me. Who taught me to seek a brilliant destiny except you?”

The backs of her knees bumped against the bed. “I never taught you this!”

“You are a descendant of Sultans. It is right that I, your heir, your firstborn son, should inherit their mantle of power. You were born a princess of Gharnatah. I shall make you a queen.”

He clasped her hands in his rough grasp and kissed them. She wrenched them away and clutched at his shoulders. “No! I forbid it. Do not do this. Do not seek the throne. It shall be the path to tragedy and your undoing!”

Ismail shook his head. A somber expression darkened his downcast eyes. “I leave in the morning. I shall send word of my victory. You shall come to me in Gharnatah soon and celebrate my triumph.”

Fatima crumpled on the floor and cradled her head in her hands.

***

Time passed, interminable without news of the ensuing conflict. Grief and seclusion returned. Every day, Fatima wept for fear of what Ismail would do. A great trial faced Nasr. Her brother had no heirs to follow him on the throne, just two golden-haired daughters sired on his Galician concubines. There would be no son denied his father’s power, no princely blood spilled in Ismail’s bid for the throne. She did not doubt Ismail would kill his uncle. His ambition knew no bounds.

His bitter words at their parting tortured her. She could not deny the inherent truth. What was it about the Nasrids that made their family so willing to war with each other? She recalled the past, where her grandfather and father had driven out the Ashqilula, once part of their family, bound by blood and ties of kinship. Her grandfather used her to thwart their ambitions and her father had gloried in their demise. The cycle of violence turned inward. Was there a curse upon her family? Were they destined to murder each other?

Unbidden, another memory sparked in her mind.

“Your children shall destroy your grandfather’s line of Sultans. Neither the Ashqilula, nor the Christians kings shall claim the victory over your family. No, that line shall end with the tyranny of the children you bear, and their sons, and the sons of their sons.”

Her grandmother Saliha had died with that promise of retribution on her lips. In Fatima’s quest to avenge the death of her father, her grandfather’s line of kingship had been broken. The blame that Ismail laid at her feet belonged to her.

***

Days later, Asiya scrambled into the room. “My Sultana, your son comes!”

On unsteady legs, Fatima rose. Her second son Muhammad rushed into the room and embraced her. She had forgotten for a moment that she had another son. Asiya left them, closing the door behind her.

When he drew back, she took in the soot and grime on his face.

He said, “The citizens of Gharnatah opened the
Bab Ilbira
to Ismail. He besieged
al-Qal’at al-Hamra
. Our uncle surrendered and he has withdrawn to Wadi-Ash. Ismail has won. He bids you to Gharnatah for his coronation. He has sent word to our sisters and to his daughters in Aisha’s care. He’s also promised me the governorship of Malaka in his stead.”

She pulled away from him. “So, you’ve betrayed your family, too.”

Muhammad’s hands alighted on her shoulders, but she shrugged off his hold. “I shall not go to Gharnatah.”

“Ismail needs his family now.”

“How could you support him? Don’t you see all he has done? He betrayed your father and me.”

Muhammad raked his hands through dark hair, so like his father’s own. “I had to go with him. You must see that.”

“Why? For riches and glory?”

“No, never. He’s my brother. How could I fail him?”

Her anger abated at the tears in his eyes, the plea in his moon-faced expression. She touched his grimy cheek.

“I know you love him, but I must ask, do you love me and your father so well?”

“You should not have to ask. I quarreled with Ismail after he told me what he had done to our father and you. I only relented when he told me Father was safe and let me see him at
al-Jabal Faro
.”

“He imprisoned him!”

“He remained there only for a short time.”

“Do you know where your father is now?”

Muhammad’s gaze darted away. She followed it. “Please, let me go to him. Your father needs me. I must be with him.”

“But Ismail said I shouldn’t tell you! He said you would try to escape with him.”

“Muhammad, I am an old woman! Where would I go? Even after your brother’s betrayal, I cannot take his father away from him. A mother cannot hate her son so much.”

“You still love Ismail, after all he’s done?”

His brows knotted together in a frown of disbelief, but she nodded.

“Yes, though he shall never hear of it. I want comfort and peace now. I cannot have those things when I am apart from your father. He is my strength and succor. I am his. If you love us, don’t keep us away from each other anymore.”

Muhammad shook his head. “Come to Gharnatah with me and speak to Ismail. I am sure he would relent.”

She drew back. “You are governor of Malaka. Must you defer to your brother to decide the fate of those in your own household?”

Something flashed in Muhammad’s eyes. She recognized it as the same pride that drove his brother, but her heart did not wrench at the thought. All she wanted was a reunion with Faraj. There would be time for sorrow and atonement again. As long as they were together, she could withstand the pain.

Muhammad clasped her hands in his. “Father’s at Shalabuniya, up the coast. Prepare to leave, take only what you need. I know Ismail shall be angry with me at first. He shall forgive me. He is Sultan, but he shall pardon his brother.”

Fatima remained uncertain that the bonds of brotherhood meant anything to Ismail. She did not burden Muhammad with such fears.

***

They left Malaka within the week on horseback, Asiya riding with Fatima. She halted at the outskirts of the city’s walls and looked back. The escarpment topped by
al-Jabal Faro
and the home of her children rose in the distance. She would miss the happy memories Malaka once afforded, the sounds of childhood laughter echoing through the gardens. A specter of betrayal and loss enshrouded the place again and tainted her remembrances.

Muhammad slowed at her side. “We shall escort you to Shalabuniya first.”

“No. You would be late to Ismail’s coronation.”

“I cannot leave you! A woman and a child alone.”

“I shall not be alone. I require the services of the Tuareg brothers, Bazu and Amud.”

She trotted her mare down the line of soldiers, who bowed their heads respectfully. She came to the brothers near the end of the column.

She nodded to them. “I need you.”

Both bowed their heads and nudged their horses on either side of her. She took her leave of Muhammad. Even as the distance grew between them, she felt his gaze linger, until the land dipped into a steep-sloped valley.

***

The whitewashed houses of Shalabuniya clung to a precipice above the shoreline, visible from the eastern outskirts. Atop the promontory, the citadel soared, framed in a backdrop of puffy white clouds and azure sky.

Fatima’s mare sweated and snorted, as she struggled to find a proper footing in the craggy landscape. They climbed a maze of narrow, cobblestone streets as familiar as any in Al-Andalus.

At the gates that barred entry to the citadel, Fatima demanded entry.

“Who are you, woman?” A gruff, burly soldier glared at her from the gatehouse.

Bazu dismounted and she gave him the letter Muhammad had written and stamped with the seal of the governor of Malaka. He handed it to the guardsman. The man eyed them, suspicion echoing in his quizzical glance.

She stared back at him. “I am mother to the governor of Malaka. I’m a Sultana of Gharnatah, unaccustomed to being questioned by lowly guards.”

The gatekeeper grunted and ordered the entryway unfurled. Fatima walked beside her horse and held the reins, while Asiya hugged the mare’s neck, her spindly legs dangling. Bazu and Amud followed them. Palm, juniper and pine trees lined the cobblestone road. The citadel sprawled over the landscape.

A solitary figure leaned against a palm tree. He cradled a mewling kitten in his hands. Other cats played at his feet. His weathered hands smoothed over the kitten’s coat. As it nipped at his fingertips, he laughed.

The horse’s tether slipped through Fatima’s fingers. She stood in silence, her heart full to bursting at the sight of her husband.

Then he set the small cat among the others and reached, hesitatingly, for a long length of wood beside him. He struggled to find it. When he did, he groped around with it. His furtive movements drew an angry hiss from a white-tailed cat.

“Sorry, I did not see you there. I can’t see much of anything now.”

Tears blurred Fatima’s vision as Faraj shuffled forward. A glimmering sun beamed down and he raised his face to its glow. Light illuminated the opaque film obscuring his pupils. Then he sniffed and turned around.

“Who’s there? Samir, is that you?” Then he chuckled. “Though I do wonder why my jailor should smell of jasmine….” His voice trailed off for a moment. “Who’s there? Did Uthman send you to torment me? Or my son?”

She shuddered at the warble in his voice. Age and time had weakened him.

He wavered for a moment and cocked his head. “Come to laugh at the old blind man, have you?”

Fatima swallowed her tears. She would not greet him with tears. “No. I have come to find the man I love, whom I shall always love.”