Sultana's Legacy (46 page)
Her gaze swept the courtyard, taking in the opulence of the space. “Your
Hajib
persuaded me to come here. He reminded me of what I was missing.”
One week after she had read all of Ismail’s correspondence, another letter had arrived. This time, the chief minister Ibn al-Mahruq personally delivered it. In his letter, Ismail promised that if she would come to him in Gharnatah, his men would exhume the body of his father and bring it to Gharnatah for re-burial.
Fatima wished nothing more than to be close to her beloved husband and father. She agreed to Ismail’s terms with one goal in mind. Faraj’s body went on to Gharnatah and she followed the next day.
“You mean to stay then? Now that Father’s body is here?”
“Of course, but that is not the sole reason I came.”
A boyish grin dismissed his downcast look. “Then, you…are you ready to resolve the past between us? Have you forgiven me at last?”
Her smile mirrored his. “Everything for you is so effortless, so swift, hmm? You believe that by the power you hold, all things are possible.”
His features hardened, the lips pressed tightly together, but she would not relent. “One thing is not. I shall never lie to you, or pretend to approve of the evils you have done. You shall never have my forgiveness, not in this life or the world to come. You have wounded me to the core with your betrayal. You were beloved among all my children. My best and brightest, now my greatest disappointment.”
This time he turned away. She turned from him too and closed her eyes. They did not look at each other again.
“You are a most unnatural woman, to hate your son so.” His voice sounded wooden and distant. She kept her silence.
He continued, “If you have not arrived here to reconcile with me, why did you come?”
“I would like to meet my grandchildren.”
“Very well. Wait here. I shall send the chief eunuch of the harem to you.”
His footsteps departed, ringing against the marble tiles. When he was gone, she sagged beside a slender column.
***
The chief eunuch reminded her of a bumblebee, as he darted between the pillars in his haste. He offered the same humble prostration the courtiers did.
Fatima nudged him with the tip of her boot. “Please rise and tell me your name.”
The simpering fool fluttered his long, golden lashes like a slave girl. “Abu’l-Qasim, o queen of queens. I am your most humble and devoted servant. For seven years, I have served the house of Nasr. It is my greatest wish to continue in your mighty favor.”
“Get up, Abu’l-Qasim.” When he did, she continued. “If you and I are to work together, please follow my requests.”
“Anything the
Umm al-Walad
would wish….”
“Please do not use that title to address me. My son is not the legitimate ruler of Gharnatah. I have no right to the title of
Umm al-Walad
. You shall call me by my only title, Sultana. My father made me so and I shall always be thus. Further, those who are of use to me, recognize their worth, as well as my position. Mindless sycophants, bowing and scraping, shall not serve me.
“Now, if you have some wisdom in that head of yours, please use it. Arrange for my servant Asiya to meet me here. She is with the crowd in the courtyard. I need no one else. Then, take us to my quarters so we may rest. Last, arrange for me to see my grandchildren and their mothers within the hour. Can you do all this?”
“Yes, my Sultana.” Abu’l-Qasim’s patronizing tone vanished.
She patted his arm. “I think you and I shall work well together.”
The chief eunuch attended to his task with speed and soon, Asiya stood beside Fatima, marveling at the opulent surroundings.
Fatima shook her head. “You should have seen
al-Qal’at al-Hamra
in my father and grandfather’s days.”
Abu’l-Qasim led them to a room on the top floor. It spanned the width and breath of the entire harem. Here, Fatima could entertain guests, eat her meals and write her correspondences without leaving her chambers. Carved cedar furniture filled her bedroom and the bedding of damask silk fluttered in the breeze. Two of the windows faced outward to the gardens, with an open archway between them. It led to a small balcony that overlooked the willow, elm and cypress trees.
In the largest chamber, strewn with silk cushions and Damascene carpets, Abu’l-Qasim brought Ismail’s children and their mothers.
He announced, “The Crown Prince of Gharnatah, Muhammad ibn Ismail and his mother, the Sultana Arub.”
A pale, black-haired woman shuffled forward, her dainty feet in step behind the boy she followed. Both of them bowed, though the woman seemed more deferential than her son did. Then she coughed behind her hands.
She looked at Fatima sheepishly and murmured, “I greet you in the name of God.”
Fatima nodded to her and stared at the sinewy boy who watched her beneath slits for eyes. Then he frowned. Asiya’s gasp whistled through her teeth.
Fatima leaned forward. “Why do you make that face, boy? Do you know who I am?”
“
Ummi
said you are my grandmother. Why haven’t I ever seen you before?”
Such an imperious tone for a child who could not be more than five years old. Fatima did not have to guess which parent he took after.
She replied. “I lived outside the capital for many years with your father’s father.”
“But now you shall stay here?”
When she nodded, the heir pronounced. “That is good. I wish to know my grandmother.”
His mother tugged his sleeve and the glare reserved for Fatima swung to his pale-faced mother. Still, he moved aside and allowed another dark-haired boy and three girls forward.
“Prince Ismail ibn Ismail, and his sisters, the Sultanas Moraima, Zaynab and Saliha, also the children of Sultana Arub.” Abu’l-Qasim said. The boy was perhaps one year younger than the Crown Prince was and much more pleasant. Each of his sisters seemed older than him.
Then a silk-clad, blonde-haired woman with dimpled cheeks approached, leading three jovial children who could not restrain their rambunctious tussling long enough to bow. Their mother chided them and looked at Fatima furtively before she snapped, “I said, be quiet!”
Asiya chuckled behind her hands. The blonde’s dimples heightened her rounded face.
Abu’l-Qasim said, “The Sultana Jamila and her children, Prince Faraj ibn Ismail and his sisters, the Sultanas Hamda and Muna.”
Ismail’s second wife hustled her charges beside Sultana Arub and her family. She still chided them beneath her breath. Fatima viewed her with some sympathy, recalling how her daughter Mumina had been a tyrant as a child. Though Sultana Jamila’s son was his grandfather’s namesake, his mother’s golden curls and dimples did not mark him as a Nasrid child. Fatima smiled as she remembered how she once thought the same of her brother Nasr.
A brown-haired woman approached clutching blue-black prayer beads. Her dark-skinned boy trailed in her wake. His large eyes and dark straight hair evoked lingering Fatima’s memories. She clutched her chest, awed by the sight of him. A likeness of her husband stood before her again, reborn in the image of his grandson. The boy and his mother bowed low.
“The Sultana Safa and her son, Prince Yusuf ibn Ismail,” Abu’l-Qasim said.
Asiya sighed and whispered. “He looks like the master. Do you see it, my Sultana?”
Fatima nodded and with some difficulty, focused her attention on the last arrivals, the two granddaughters she had not seen in several years. The Sultanas Leila and Fatimah bowed as prettily as their stepmothers did. Leila smiled shyly at her grandmother. When she straightened, Leila’s bare feet peeked beneath her rode. Fatima realized with a pang that her namesake, the aunt she had never known, once did the same as a child.
Fatima reviewed the tender faces before her. Traces of her beloved father, her husband and even herself dwelled in her grandchildren’s features. Her arms opened wide and she welcomed them. Leila and Yusuf approached her first, then all the children followed suit. Crown Prince Muhammad jostled his brothers and sisters, who did not give way to him because of his position. Fatima laughed at their antics and gathered them closed. She whispered a blessing upon each of the children’s heads.
Asiya said, “The Sultana Fatima has brought you many presents, children, in her writing room.”
She shepherded them next door. Their mothers laughed as the children scrambled for presents in the center of the chamber. They tussled with each other over dolls, board games, toy horses and balls. Only Leila, the oldest among them, showed any interest in the astrolabe. Fatima smiled at her, thinking that perhaps she would share the same penchant as Nasr for astronomy.
Little Yusuf, who had hesitated at the fringe of the group, also looked at the astrolabe with curiosity in his expression, until he settled on another choice.
He fingered the cover of the calligrapher’s box, inlaid with tortoiseshell and ivory, mother-of-pearl and luminous gold leaf at the four sides. Fatima observed his fascination with a smile.
Wide-eyed, he turned to her. “May I have this?”
Yusuf could not have been more than two, but he spoke in a clear and pleasant voice that seemed to be that of an older child.
“Of course you may. Still, I wonder if you would not prefer something else. The last toy horse, perhaps.” She gestured toward the spot where it remained unclaimed.
Yusuf shook his head. “I like this one. Thank you, Grandmother.”
He traced the text inscribed upon the cover. “What does it say?”
Fatima recited the line from memory. “And God is most bountiful. He taught with the quill and ink. He taught His people that which they did not know.” She paused and nodded to him. “It is a verse from
al-Qur’an
. Have you heard of it in the princes’ school?”
“There is no princes’ school here, most honored Sultana,” Sultana Safa said. “The children study with the imam of Gharnatah at the end of every week. Yusuf has not started the lessons.”
Fatima frowned. “I began reading
al-Qur’an
at his age. It was my first book. Before my childhood, there were always royal tutors who educated the sovereign’s children. My son has not re-instituted this practice?”
In turn, the Sultanas avoided her eyes. Even the serene and pious Safa stared at the cedar floor.
Sultana Arub coughed, a deep rattling sound in her chest.
Fatima asked, “Are you ill?”
Sultana Arub shook her head, but continued coughing. Fatima sent Asiya for a pitcher of water.
Sultana Arub drank a cupful. “The
Umm al-Walad
is most kind, as her son says.”
Fatima shook her head. “Is that what Ismail says? If he ever spoke of me in truth, with reference to my kindness, he should also have known I would never accept the new title. I have lived most of my life as a Sultana. I shall die as one. It does not please me that your children’s full education suffers neglect. Studying
al-Qur’an
is not enough. When I was a child, I learned the sciences and arts. Can any of my grandchildren write?”
Their mothers’ silent stares answered her. She wondered if they were also ignorant of such an education.
She said, “Very well. I shall teach my grandchildren.”
Sultana Safa gave her a dazed look. “What if the Sultan should wish otherwise?”
Fatima rolled her eyes heavenward. “His wishes are not my concern. These are my grandchildren. They shall be a credit to the name of my learned father, Muhammad
al-Fakih
.”
The Family
Princess Fatima
Gharnatah, Al-Andalus: Rajab 725 AH (Granada, Andalusia: July AD 1325)
Beneath a sapphire sky, Fatima and her son’s remaining wives ate the mid-morning meal of eggs and flatbread. Against Sultana Safa’s protests, her counterpart Jamila had dismissed the servants. While Safa twisted blue-black mourning beads between her nimble fingers, Jamila whistled while she flavored steaming tisane with cardamom.
Fatima commented, “You’re in excellent spirits today.”
Jamila stopped whistling. Her sea-green eyes darted to Safa’s pallid face before her cheeks flushed pink. Safa’s lips widened in a smirk.
Jamila said, “Forgive me, I did not mean to offend.”
“No, my daughter, you mistake me.” Fatima reached for her hand. “We need smiles and great cheer in these miserable times. It does my heart good to see your dimples again.”
Safa’s breath escaped in a loud gasp. Her furtive gaze darted away and she sipped the tisane without comment.
Fatima did not have to guess how she felt about Jamila’s cheerful nature, but Jamila’s gaiety suited the morning better than dour expressions. Today was the first anniversary of the death of Sultana Arub, mother of Crown Prince Muhammad.
When Jamila offered Fatima the cup of brew, she asked, “Where are my grandchildren? I intend to resume our lessons after the midday prayer.”
Jamila answered, “Abu’l-Qasim has not yet returned with the little Sultanas from the
Qaysariyya
. Leila is so excited at the prospects of choosing her own colors for the wedding. I doubt the chief eunuch can tear her away from the silk market.”
Safa commented, “She should be well-pleased. It is a good match between her and the Hudayr clan in Qirbilyan. Leila’s mother descended from that clan. It is just that the Hudayr should receive a Nasrid daughter.”
Jamila glared at her counterpart before she cleared her throat. “I remember my own wedding. I was so frightened when I married and I was only a year older than Leila. I think she is a little sad, for though she is the eldest, her devotion to her brothers and sisters knows no bounds.”
Soon, the youngest Sultanas returned to the harem, with Abu’l-Qasim leading them. The chief eunuch bowed and presented the textiles he had purchased from the
Qaysariyya
. When Fatima promised she would sew the
tiraz
bands for her granddaughter’s
khil’a
¸ Leila preened with pride.