Sultana's Legacy (45 page)
Fatima knew only one mistress of merchants who would insist on speaking with her. She stood and followed Samir to the indoor courtyard. The Jewess sat among her servants. Asiya inspected the textiles they proffered.
The family resemblance between the old Sitt al-Tujjar and this one, her granddaughter, struck Fatima in amazement. She exchanged greetings with the woman.
“I am told you have something to show me, Sitt al-Tujjar.”
The Jewess replied, “Only you may touch it, in private.”
Fatima glanced at the hooded man dressed in coarse woolen garments. He hovered beside the female merchant with a bolt of samite under his arm.
Fatima said, “Please follow me.”
Samir cleared his throat. “Is that wise?” He jerked his chin toward the man.
Fatima said, “I trust the Sitt al-Tujjar and those with her.”
Fatima took them to a large chamber at the end of the hallway. Shalabuniya served as a Nasrid prison, but the territory had been the seat of a governorship in the past, now vacant. The Sitt al-Tujjar and the man entered the room. Fatima closed the door behind them.
“What have you brought that is for my eyes only, Sitt al-Tujjar?”
“She brings a brother’s grief at his sister’s loss.”
The hooded man set down his burden and revealed his reddened face, with puffy eyes and dark lips.
“Nasr!” Fatima embraced him.
Her brother kissed both her cheeks. Even with his blond hair cropped close to the skull, the hollows around his eyes and the leathery complexion that made him seem twice his thirty-four years, she would have known him anywhere by his resemblance to his mother.
“Forgive me for the deception.” He kissed her fingers. “But your son has spies who cannot know I have left the safety of Wadi-Ash.”
The Sitt al-Tujjar bowed and withdrew to the opposite end of the room.
Fatima hugged her brother. “Trickery is something you and I are familiar with, Nasr. You need not explain, for I believe that while our jailor is kind to us, he reports everything that happens here to Ismail. I’m so glad to see you, it has been too long.”
“I wish I might have come under better circumstances.”
Her arm looped with his, they walked the length of the room.
“Faraj loved you, sister.”
“And I loved him. I often sit for hours at his gravesite and talk to him as when he was alive. My servant Asiya worries for me. She believes I am not grieving properly. No one knows better than I that my beloved is gone.”
Nasr looked older than he should have, though she was thirty years his senior. She clutched his hand. “Can you forgive me?”
“For what, sister?”
“Setting you on the path to the Sultanate. I brought you to ruin and must accept my part in the fate that befell you.”
“Fatima, my sins are my own. I followed the path without your guidance for some time. I wanted the power and prestige. I wanted to take Gharnatah from our brother Muhammad. Can you forgive me for treating him so cruelly at the end of his life? I broke my promise to you.”
“Brother, let us forgive each other and start anew. My sins are your sins and your sins are mine.”
“All but one.”
She patted Nasr’s hand. “You mean the battle of
al-Fahs
.”
A year earlier, Ismail had fought the Castillans in a violent, bloody conflict. His army killed the regents of King Alfonso XI of Castilla-Leon. Samir had recounted the details of the battle for Faraj one evening, while Fatima pretended not to listen. She did not miss her husband’s gloating smile when Samir mentioned the death of Prince Juan, the child killer at Tarif. Faraj also seemed unsurprised to hear that Castillan mercenaries had appeared at the site in droves. He had actually chuckled. Many of the Castillan company became Ismail’s prisoners at the end of the conflict. They swore the exiled Sultan of Gharnatah had bought their service.
Fatima sighed. “My son took your throne from you, Nasr. I understand your desire to avenge yourself against him. I regret all that he has done to you. You are my dear brother.”
“And he is your son. Why are you here alone in this place?”
“I have my Asiya.”
“You have other children who would welcome you. Your daughters….”
“Have their families. I am content to remain here, where I am closest to my husband.”
“I worry for you.” Nasr’s chin drooped. His forehead touched hers. “I would bid you to Wadi-Ash, but my funds, well, I am not blessed with the fortune I had when I was Sultan. I can never return. One day, you must go back. You must go to the home of your heart, Fatima, to Gharnatah.”
***
The next day, Fatima rose with the dawn. Asiya brought her the morning meal. She set the plate of flatbread and two hard-boiled eggs on a table at the foot of the bed. While Fatima ate, she tidied the chamber and removed the bedding for the wash.
Then she asked, “What shall I do with these letters Samir has left here each day?”
Fatima looked over her shoulder at the rolls of parchment. Each bore the unbroken seal of the Sultan of Gharnatah.
“Give them to me. I’ll read them this morning.”
Queen of Queens
Princess Fatima
Gharnatah, Al-Andalus: Sha’ban 720 AH (Granada, Andalusia: September AD 1320)
A chorus of applause and cheers welcomed Fatima home to Gharnatah. Its citizens lined the thoroughfares strewn with laurel boughs and palm leaves. The wind gusted through narrow cobblestone streets and scattered fragrant buds. From the balconies of Gharnatah’s homes, silken gold, green and red pennons fluttered in the breeze, setting the bells affixed to them to a tinkling melody.
Fatima rode through the
Qaysariyya
, seated high atop a camel beneath a striped
hawdaj
. The beast snorted loudly, perhaps troubled by the noise and scents of the marketplace. The camel boy patted his neck. The Tuareg brothers Bazu and Amud rode at Fatima’s side.
A portion of Ismail’s personal guard at the forefront and rear had protected her on the journey from Shalabuniya. Now, they joined the soldiers at the base of the
Sabika
hill, who kept the mob at bay.
Asiya walked beside the camel, clutching bouquets thrown to her from the crowd. She looked up at Fatima with a wide grin, her cheeks pink.
Fatima shouted above the din. “You could have been at Shalabuniya with Samir.”
Asiya laughed. “I would not miss your homecoming, my Sultana. Not even for Samir. He promised he would wait for me, even if I were gray and timeworn. I believe him. For now, I serve you, not the desires of my own heart.”
At the age of twelve, Asiya possessed the beauty of her mother. Their former jailor Samir, who was old enough to be her father, had also noticed. In recent weeks, Fatima had hinted and then told Asiya outright that she was free to marry and establish her own family whenever she wished. Yet Asiya remained loyal.
The crowd surged forward even as they trekked past the gatehouse up the length of the
Sabika
. Ismail’s captain, a Moor from Bilal as-Sudan, and his guards led them. They arrived at the royal precincts. A multitude of courtiers awaited Fatima’s arrival.
Silks, linen and cotton fluttered in the breeze. More flowers and beribboned bells littered the marble grounds. She shook her head at the extravagant and unexpected welcome. She would have preferred to return to her birthplace without such ceremony.
The camel boy slowed the beast and lowered him to the ground. Stalwart guards lined the entrance to Gharnatah’s palace. Fatima alighted and nodded to Asiya, who waited beside the camel.
Fatima proceeded alone to the cedar doors covered with brass. She recalled her childhood, when they had towered over her head. Courtiers lined the path and bowed, as she ambled past them. Incense, musk and ambergris greeted her. She passed through the gold-gilded antechamber just off the throne room. More wasted flower petals bedecked the marble walkways.
In the full glare of the midday sun, the splendor of her family’s ancestral seat of power came into view. The profusion of multi-colored tiles and decorations incised within the marble walls glowed brighter than precious stones. Ismail sat on the gilded throne of Gharnatah in silken comfort. Her heart heaved. His green robe of state bore four
tiraz
bands and an ermine trim enhanced the majesty of the garment.
Other things were different, too. The puffiness beneath his dark eyes and lines scoring the olive brown skin did not exist the last time she saw him. Had he already learnt the great truth, as her father and brothers once had? All power came with a price. Yet, seven years on, she could not counsel her proud son against his mistakes.
The courtiers and ministers who milled about the room watched her nimble steps. She advanced past the square patchwork upon which no Believer would tread and prepared to make the obeisance required of those in the Sultan’s presence.
Ismail stood and held up his hand. He brought all whispers and gossiping to an end by a simple gesture. Only the scattered bells littering the grounds dared shatter the quiet.
He began, “My ancestors ruled Gharnatah for almost a century before my coming. In that time, there has never been a queen mother. It is a great honor that my mother should be the first to bear the title in this court.”
Ismail approached her. They stood an arms-length apart. He said, “In the name of God, bear witness and render homage to the presence of the
Umm al-Walad
, the Sultana Fatima bint Muhammad, daughter of
al-Fakih
. She, who is like the life-giving water nourishing the earth in times of joy, and like the mighty pillar strengthening her family in times of sorrow. The magnificence of her deeds and the goodness of her heart shine brilliantly for all to see. She is the queen of queens, mother of the Sultan Ismail.”
His gaze swept over the courtiers before he regarded her again. “From this day forth, the
Umm al-Walad
shall bow to no one, not even her son.”
Ismail sagged to his knees before her, his hands clasped. He bent double until his forehead touched the marble floor, exposing his nape. The courtiers followed suit and abased themselves like him, before her.
She took in the spectacle, wondering what her proud father would have thought of men who knelt before a woman. He might have been amused, at best. She could not share the same sentiment.
She bent toward Ismail. “Did you enjoy that grand gesture?”
Her voice barely rose above a whisper. Ismail raised his head and winked.
“I hoped you might like it,
Ummi
.”
She sneered at him. “You hoped in vain.”
A scowl slashed across his features and then he stood. He tucked her hand under his arm. She forced herself to remain calm and not pull away. Even if she had tried, his grip held firm.
He said to the courtiers, “The
Umm al-Walad
and I shall retire. You may disperse.”
Ismail led her outside. Sunlight glared at them. She shielded her eyes, as he led her down the length of a long courtyard. In a pool at the center, orange and blue fish darted through the clear water. Guards lined the walkway.
“What of my servant?” she asked. “Asiya is in that mob swarming the courtyard.”
“My chief eunuch shall find her.”
She expected to pass through gates and gardens before she reached the royal residence. Yet, he had altered her birthplace significantly. They moved westward beyond the sphere of the court to the harem, no more than thirty paces between the two. A new cistern fed water to the building ahead of them, with a red-bricked roof crowning the marble façade.
Beyond the open doorway, also unguarded, sunlight shimmered in a pool at the center of an indoor courtyard, ringed with columns. Every plant and flowering shrub in Al-Andalus crowded the space, including star thistle, sandwort, honeysuckle and chamomile intermingled with prickly junipers, hawthorn and flax-leaved daphne. Green, red and gold curtains fluttered above three cedar doors, at the north, west and south positions. The portals indicated rooms she could not see beyond the central space.
“What have you done here? No royal residence has ever so closely abutted the domain of the courtiers. You’ve destroyed my father’s palace to build this?”
With a sweeping wave of his hand and a grin, he answered, “As you see.”
“But it is dangerous! Even with guards to protect you. There has always been a clear demarcation of the sanctuary the harem offers, for the Sultan’s sake.”
“Careful. I might think you care about my safety. The people love me. All of Gharnatah is my domain and I walk without fear.”
An arrogant presumption on his part, but Fatima ignored it. Instead, she tested his hold on her. “Release me, I pray. No one is here to see us. No further pretense is necessary.”
“But you have always enjoyed pretense. I thought you might savor the delights of this moment. Here we stand a loving mother and her dutiful son.”
“I prefer plain truths instead of deceit.”
Ismail chuckled. “That was not always so. You deceived my father well when it suited your purpose. Who do you think I earned the talent for lies from, if not you?”
“You were always an apt pupil, perhaps too clever for your own good. One day, you must take responsibility for your faults and stop blaming me. Fortunately, I have never acquired your ease with lying to the people I loved. Each betrayal broke my heart. Such regrets as pain my heart cannot harm you, Ismail.” Her nails sank into his forearm. Though he strove against it, he winced at the pressure of her hand. “You have no heart.”
He released his grip and glared at her. “You dare to say such after what you’ve done? Not even my own mother would tell me my father was dead!”
“Did you care? You consigned him to his fate at Shalabuniya.”
“I always cared!”
His countenance wavered for the space of a breath, before his lips thinned in a firm line. For a moment, he seemed like a small boy desperate for his mother’s approval. She vowed he would never have it again.