Sultana's Legacy (48 page)
The chief minister arrived and bowed beside his master.
Ismail whispered, “Gharnatah for my eldest son and heir, the Crown Prince Muhammad. Protect him.”
The
Hajib
bowed again and withdrew.
Ismail reached for Fatima again. “
Ummi
?”
She came to him and took his hand in hers. “What would you have of me?”
“You promised never to lie to me. I ask you to break that vow. Lie to me for the last time.”
She swallowed a sob and clambered onto the bed. She drew up her knees beneath her and held his head upon her lap. She swept back his dark hair. Her fingertips traced the familiar planes and angles of his features.
“It is warm and we are far from this place, riding along the shores of Malaka. Just the two of us as we used to do. The seabirds soar over our heads. Their cries echo through the wisps of clouds. Can you feel the wind in your hair, the golden glow of the sun on your back?”
“I…can see it, I see the light….”
His final, whispered breath escaped in a croaking sound, but she held him still. “The splendor of a new day rises to greet you. Its beauties are yours to behold. The sapphire skies, the waters of the White Sea, the golden sands, all of it as you remember. You are home again, my son.”
She looked down at his sightless eyes. Her distorted image reflected in them. She kissed his cool brow and whispered, “It was not a lie, my Ismail. It was not a lie.”
Someone touched her shoulder. “My Sultana, he is gone.”
She shrugged off Abu’l-Qasim’s hand, though he said, “Let his servants tend to him.”
“No! They shall not touch him.”
“But he…the Sultan is dead.”
“Do you think I need you to tell me that? Leave us.”
“But my Sultana, please.”
“Get out!”
She held Ismail close, as if she could still protect him from the cruelties and pain the world offered. The chief eunuch ushered everyone from the room. They were alone.
Fatima rose from the bloodstained bed. Ismail’s head lolled on the sheets. She fetched a basin of water and a towel. She blotted the crimson stains around his mouth and nose. She removed his ragged garments. The full extent of the cruelty done to him did not frighten her. She never recoiled from it, not even when the reddened towel smeared the stains, rather than cleansed him.
Memories cascaded through her mind with each touch against his cooling skin. The first fluttering of his life within her. His birth. His smile and first steps, all hers to treasure. The hours spent with him at the shores of Malaka. His skill with their family’s horses, his father’s pride in his leadership. Her admiration of his wisdom and intuitiveness. Then came the brutal betrayal, her heartbreak and their never-ending quarrels, all at an end now.
She completed her task, just as glimmers of moonlight flooded the chamber. Lastly, she arranged her son’s limbs and turned his head to the
Qiblah
.
She kissed his brow one last time. “Go to them. They are waiting for you, your blessed father and mine. I pray you shall find the forgiveness of God, my son.”
She opened the doors of the bedchamber with a creak. Ibn al-Mahruq knelt in front of her. She touched the coarse graying hair on his head. The minister bowed and wept in silence.
She asked, “Where is my family?”
“They are still in the
Umm al-Walad
’s receiving room.”
Ibn al-Mahruq followed her. Ismail’s widows had gathered their children around them. Fatima’s granddaughters sobbed piteously, most of all Leila.
When Fatima entered, Yusuf looked up. His red-rimmed eyes glowed despite the dim lighting. With a wave, Fatima silently bade him to remain with his mother Safa. She sought the Crown Prince.
Muhammad stood apart from the group with Abu’l-Qasim at his side, his back to the wall. When Fatima advanced on him, his loud gasp filled the room.
She bowed low and grasped the hem of his robe between her fingers, before she brought it to her lips. “Long live the Sultan.”
Her words echoed in a repeated murmur throughout the chamber. The fluttering of silk told her that everyone followed her example.
“Grandmother? What do I do? I don’t know what to do.”
Muhammad’s heated whisper stirred her from the floor. “Go to your
Hajib
and place your hand on his head. Command him to rise.”
Muhammad did as she said, then looked at her, “Was that right?”
“Now command your family to do the same.”
“You may stand now.” Muhammad closed his little fists at his sides.
Ibn al-Mahruq said, “We must proclaim the Sultan’s death and the ascension of Abu Abdallah Muhammad the fourth.”
“What about my father’s murderers?” Muhammad asked. He looked at Ibn al-Mahruq expectantly.
The minister glanced at Fatima. “They are dead. All three of them. Uthman saw to it.”
Ibn al-Mahruq’s skin flushed as he answered, but Fatima did not avoid his gaze. Perhaps, it was for the best that her daughter had not lived to see this day. Whom would she have grieved for most, a murdered brother or her slaughtered sons?
***
Two weeks after Ismail’s death, the Sultan and the
Shaykh al-Ghuzat
Uthman appeared at the entrance to the harem before sunset. Abu’l-Qasim walked with Fatima. She greeted the Shaykh al-Ghuzat and her grandson, before she reminded Muhammad of his calligraphy lessons.
“But Grandmother, I have scribes and ministers who can write my correspondence.”
“Would you shame your forbearers? All of them wrote their own letters of state.”
“But I wanted to ride in the hills this evening with Uthman and my guard.” Muhammad stubbed the dirt with his red leather boots.
Fatima nodded to Uthman. “Surely the
Shaykh al-Ghuzat
has other matters of concern that occupy him.”
He said, “I did wish to speak to the
Umm al-Walad
about something, if you remember, my Sultan.”
Muhammad nodded. “Grandmother, I think Uthman should have a special reward for his service to us and my father. He has asked after the slave girl Jumaana from Martus.”
Fatima met Abu’l-Qasim’s gaze in a sidelong glance. She clasped her hands together. “I regret to inform the
Shaykh al-Ghuzat
and my Sultan, the slave Jumaana is dead.”
At Uthman’s incredulous look, she continued, “She drank bitter poison.”
Uthman exclaimed, “She killed herself!”
Abu’l-Qasim said, “She was so sad after Sultan Ismail died, God preserve his memory.”
Fatima added, “It is unfortunate, but the woman was responsible for my son’s death. Without the rivalry for her, my son might still be alive.”
Muhammad protested. “But Uthman rid me of Father’s murderers!”
Fatima raised her eyebrows. “Did he?”
Her gaze lingered on the pale face of the
Shaykh al-Ghuzat
. She bent with some effort and raised her grandson’s robe to her lips before she glanced at Uthman again.
“Then you shall have to find him another gift, my Sultan, or he shall have to prove his worth once more. I pray you may always rely on those who surround you for protection.”
Abu’l-Qasim followed her, as she left the harem.
In the evenings, Fatima lingered beside the graves of the Sultans of Gharnatah. Her grandfather, father and brothers rested for eternity beneath the evergreen myrtles and cypresses. Nasr had succumbed three years before. At Fatima’s behest, he had his final resting place among his ancestors, too. Now, Fatima’s son had his grave beside his grandfather’s own.
Abu’l-Qasim said, “You were right about the
Shaykh al-Ghuzat
’s desire for the girl. If you suspect his involvement in the murder of your son, why do you remain silent?”
Fatima hushed him. “I grow weary of the bloodshed. Leave me. I shall visit with my family.”
The chief eunuch bowed and turned on his heels.
She roamed the hillside, leaving flowers at each gravesite. Moonlight gleamed through the trees before she finished. At last, she knelt between the graves of her father and her son.
She prayed, “Merciful God, is my father’s legacy spent? Send me a sign of your mercy, some small measure of hope for the future. Please.”
“Grandmother?”
Yusuf’s plaintive voice drew her. His wide eyes filled with tears, illuminated by the torch he carried. He looked past her to his father’s burial mound, covered in star thistle, chamomile and honeysuckle.
“I miss Father. You must miss him, too.”
She nodded. “The call for
Salat al-Isha
sounded hours ago. Sultana Safa must have sent you and your sisters to bed before then. What are you doing here?”
“I had a strange dream, Grandmother.”
She took the torch from Yusuf and led him away toward the palace. “Tell me of your dream.”
“I became Sultan. A man lifted me high and crowned me. I don’t want to rule. If I become Sultan, it must mean Muhammad shall die and I don’t want my brother to die!”
Did Yusuf’s dream foretell another bitter loss for their family? Could Fatima bear the pain again?
Her hand alighted on Yusuf’s dark hair. “Tell no one of this dream. People can be very frightened of things they do not understand. Let’s return you to your bed.”
Yusuf asked, “You’ll stay with me, Grandmother?”
She cupped his soft cheek. His words, so similar to the last her beloved Faraj had spoken, tugged at her heart. She answered him, as she had done with her dear husband.
“Don’t you know? I’ll never leave your side.”
THE END
I wrote
Sultana’s Legacy
and its prequel,
Sultana
, after many years of research into the lives of the last dynasty of rulers who held the southern half of Spain, the Moorish family of Banu’l-Ahmar, alternatively known as the Nasrids in a later period.
The Moors
The Moors were Islamic people of Arabian and Negro descent, who invaded the Iberian Peninsula, which encompasses modern-day Portugal and Spain, beginning in the Christian eighth century. They called the conquered land Al-jazirat Al-Andalus, but in later years, the term referred only to the south of Spain and became Andalusia in modern times.
The Moors penetrated the interior and brought three-fifths of the peninsula under their control. They gave their unique culture, rich language, and the religion of Islam to a land that welcomed them at first, for the valuable riches and social order they brought. Where superstition and ignorance once pervaded all elements of life, the Moors brought intellectual pursuit and reasoning. Their blood mingled with that of the Visigoths and produced a mixed race of individuals.
By Islamic law, Muslim men could marry or have relations with non-Muslim women. Periods of zealous anti-Christian and anti-Jewish views occurred and resulted in forced conversion, but mostly, Christians and Jews enjoyed religious tolerance under Moorish rule. Some families chose to convert willingly, for all the requisite benefits including the avoidance of certain taxes and the gains of political and social advancement, while others practiced their former religion in secret.
Spurred on by religious fanaticism, bigotry, and jealousy of the Moorish achievements, the people of the northern half of the peninsula began the Reconquista, a determined struggle against the Moors. Beginning in the Christian tenth century, the rebellion spread slowly southward, until only one Moorish kingdom remained, Granada, nestled within the Sierra Nevada Mountains. A complicated line of descent links each ruler and my protagonists, the Sultana Fatima and her prince, Abu Said Faraj ibn Ismail.
Sultan Muhammad II
The second Nasrid Sultan, Muhammad II was born in the Arjuno region shortly after his father declared his suzerainty in 634 AH or AD 1237. His people called him
al-Fakih
, “the jurist” or “Lawgiver” for his swift justice. During his reign, he added to his father’s work at the Alhambra. His first cousin, Abu Said Faraj ibn Ismail, became a trusted and loyal advisor. Abu Said Faraj also married the Sultana Fatima, the daughter of Muhammad II (664 AH or AD 1265).
Sultan Muhammad II had at least three sons, Faraj, Abu Abdallah Muhammad and Abu’l Juyush Nasr. He married a princess of the Marinids dynasty to ensure peace with his erstwhile allies. He also created the
Diwan al-Insha
, his chancery, an institution that lasted almost until the end of the Sultanate. It produced some of the most brilliant thinkers in Moorish Spain’s history.
Sultan Muhammad II died 2 Sha`ban 701 AH or April 8, AD 1302, after his son, Abu Abdallah Muhammad allegedly ordered Muhammad II poisoned, on the eve of a new campaign against the Christian kingdom of Castile. His doctor attributed his death to a poisoned cake that his heir sent to his house. Sultan Muhammad II was approximately 68 years old. The account of his death in the narrative is from period sources.
Sultan Muhammad III
The third Nasrid Sultan, Muhammad III was born in 655 AH or AD 1256. During the first few weeks of his reign, Sultan Muhammad III negotiated peace treaties with the kingdoms of Castile and Aragon. The first treaty required the Nasrids to acknowledge their state as a vassal of Castile. Sultan Muhammad III was a detested figure and many of his own supporters eventually began to resent him. His erratically disturbing nature soon destroyed peace with Castile and Aragon.
Sultan Muhammad III inherited the refined tastes and upbringing, shared with his sister Sultana Fatima and their brother Sultan Abu’l-Juyush Nasr I. He combined his interests in learning and art with a sarcastic and cruel streak that made him unpopular. The references to his insults of his court poet at his own coronation and his cruelty to the prisoners in the Alhambra’s Alcazaba are from period sources.