Sultana's Legacy (6 page)

“Now, the Sultan must rely upon the Marinids, who have been his enemies.”

“Yes and upon your father, who has ever served him loyally.”

“Is that why you haven’t written to Father about the child you carry?”

She glared at Ismail. “A mother is allowed some secrets, is she not? You forget yourself at times, my son. Or, perhaps I have indulged you too much.”

His lazy smile faded and he inclined his head, his gaze falling away. “Forgive me.”

His outward sign of contrition did not fool her. A little smile teased at the corners of his mouth, though he strove against it.

“I have not told Faraj of this child because he would return home, when my father needs him at Tarif.”

Ismail protested, “You need him, too! The Sultan would agree, if you only asked him.”

She shook her head and reached for his shoulder. “The governor of Malaka must be loyal to the Sultan’s cause, even above the wishes of his own heart and his family. Your father may return in due time. The siege cannot last forever.”

His lips pressed in a thin line, he made no reply. She chuckled at his stubbornness and clutched his hand, pulling it to her abdomen. “Here, see if you can feel the first stirrings of your brother or sister.”

His hand settled on her stomach too briefly, before he pulled it back and stared at his fingers with something akin to awe. “How did the baby get inside you? Is it the same way as when the stallions cover the mares in heat?”

She laughed, throwing her head back. A billowing wind carried the sound out to sea. “Not quite, my Ismail. You shall understand in time. You are yet young.”

She chose to ignore the fact that her husband had been thirteen, a year younger than Ismail, when he received the gift of three concubines from her grandfather.

“Why can’t you tell me now? I shall have my own harem someday.”

“A child should be sired in a loving union between a man and woman. The bond between us differentiates us from the animals. If you wish to know how a man feels about the act of love, ask your father when he returns.”

“I intend to.”

She did not doubt him. “Come, my son, let us return.”

Ismail followed, as she nudged her mare up the sandy steep incline from the beach below their home. They rode in silence along the worn track and entered through the southwestern gate, watched by guardsmen who patrolled the battlements. The effects of the sea had weathered the gray walls, which had protected Malaka for many centuries. The men averted their eyes as Fatima rode past. After she and Ismail crested the hill, their horses turned eastward and cantered toward the stables.

He dismounted first before he helped her. “I shall rub down the horses and feed them.”

“We have grooms for that.”

“I know. I like to work with my hands.”

Ismail loved horses as much as she loved hunting birds. He had learned to ride on his own at six years of age, despite Fatima’s useless protests to Faraj. Since her husband’s departure, she had taken to riding with Ismail. If she could not stop him, at least she could be with him.

Her hand rested against his cool cheek. Beneath her palm, the prickly beginnings of facial hair that would soon cover his angular cheeks scraped her delicate flesh. “Do not tarry for long. I am always at my happiest when you are beside me.”

Ismail beamed. He had not lost the childhood dimples. “I thought you only felt that way about Father.”

She caressed his cheek and returned his generous smile. He bowed before her and attended both horses. She lingered before turning from the stables and their pungent scent. She rounded the outlying buildings that bordered the familial residence. The red-roofed arsenal dominated on the left, its polished marble walls echoing with the sounds of the workers inside. One of the men stepped out and upon seeing her, immediately turned to the wall with his head bowed. Laughter bubbled up inside of her. She pulled the folds of her
hijab
closer around her face.

Heat and smoke from the firing chambers of the kilns escaped directly into the open air. The workers paid her progress no heed, their attention devoted to glazed and gilded ceramics. In the previous year, a Persian fleeing the onslaught of the Mongols in the east had sought refuge at Malaka. He worked a fine technique of luster faience for the benefit of her household.

Fatima drifted beyond the confines of the industrial quarter into the orchards. A light breeze rustled the bare tops of pomegranate, almond and fig trees. Malaka produced the best figs in all Al-Andalus. Earlier in the year, merchants had exported them as far as Baghdad and Damascus.

Columns graced the entryway to the governor’s castle. As Fatima crossed the threshold of her home, rows of decorative tin objects gleamed on shelves fitted on either side of an elongated chamber. Some glistened in a turquoise color, with the addition of cobalt oxide from the Persian’s skillful hand.

The room led to an inner garden courtyard, where the sounds of a child at play beckoned. Fatima leaned against a column and watched.

Six-year-old Mumina scrambled up the steps to an alabaster-colored woman. “Look, Aunt Baraka, I have more star thistles for my crown.”

The concubine attended the little princess, tousling the dark hair tumbling down her back in thick curls. A slight smile curved Baraka’s lips while she strung flowers together into a diadem.

She placed the delicate circlet on Mumina’s head. “There now, you look like a proper princess.” 

“I am a proper princess!” Mumina insisted, stamping her tiny feet in that imperious nature she had developed of late.

“Yes,” Baraka replied, “and a pretty one at that.”

Mumina spied Fatima beside the column. “
Ummi
!”

She skipped toward her, her silken tunic bunched around her knobby knees. “Look, Aunt Baraka made me a crown.”

Fatima picked her up and kissed her soundly on both cheeks. “You are very beautiful, my sweetness.”

“I know.” Mumina fingered the green jasper brooch that held Fatima’s tunic closed at the neck.

When Fatima set her down, she scrambled back to Baraka, kissed her cheek and then played among the rows of flowers. At the opposite end of the garden, her governess Amoda sat feeding the youngest child of the family, baby Saliha, who was in her second year. Amoda inclined her head and offered a smile, which Fatima returned.

Then she greeted the concubine. Baraka clasped her hands together and returned the acknowledgment. Now in her forty-sixth year, Baraka and her counterparts Samara and Hayfa had been Faraj’s companions from his youth, although he never visited them now. Fatima rarely saw Samara and Hayfa outside of the harem’s walls. Only Baraka did not hide herself away.

Since the family had lived at Malaka, Fatima witnessed Baraka’s increasing care and devotion to Faraj’s children without comment. While the concubine did not interact often with the boys Ismail and Muhammad, she seemed to delight in the seven girls Fatima had borne. She had often kissed bruised knees and fingers, or mediated the little quarrels that often sprang up between the children.

In truth, Baraka’s attentions had privately unnerved Fatima. She worried for her children’s safety in the company of a woman who reviled their mother. Yet, she soon saw how her daughters responded to Baraka’s kind gestures. They referred to her as their aunt, with an affection they reserved for no one else, even Fatima’s sister Alimah who resided with them.

Mumina squealed with delight and Baraka’s gaze sought her under hooded eyelids. Silent yearning flushed her face and glittered in the depths of her eyes. Then she glared at Fatima.

“I did not mean for you to find me here, Sultana. I thought you would still be out riding with Prince Ismail until midday.”

“You are a part of this family, Baraka. My girls adore you. You do not need my permission to be with them.”

“I did not ask for it!”

Baraka’s emerald gaze pinned Fatima for a moment before her stare fell away. “Still, I thank you for allowing me to be of use to them.”

A cool wind encircled the women and Fatima rubbed at her arms beneath the silken tunic. “I see the ache in your eyes when you are with my daughters. You once wanted children of your own.”

“Your husband did not wish it. He wanted to sire heirs only with you. I would not have been so foolish as to give him sons to rival your own.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Do you think I would allow any child of mine to be at the mercy of your offspring in the succession? No. It is better this way.”

Vehemence embittered her tone.

Fatima sighed. “Baraka, my sons would never hurt any child of their father’s blood. I had hoped you also understood that I would never do such a thing. Faraj may not love you, but he.…”

“Is it not enough that you have the master’s love?” The concubine’s voice descended to a husky murmur. “The great Sultana must take every opportunity to remind me.”

“Baraka, I did not mean….wait! Baraka, come back!”

Fatima’s words floated on the empty silence in the place where Baraka had stood. The concubine’s sobs echoed as she fled inside the house.

“My Sultana!”

Dual calls echoed from the opposite ends of the house. Amoda’s twin sister Leeta came from the family quarters while Fatima’s loyal eunuch, Niranjan, the twins’ brother, entered from the narrow chamber that preceded the garden courtyard. Both bowed as they approached.

Leeta whipped her graying braid over a thin shoulder. “My Sultana, I believe the silk merchant has arrived at the market this morning. I shall go to him.”

Niranjan suggested, “Perhaps the Sultana would wish to see the merchant’s wares for herself?”

Fatima’s gaze flitted from Leeta to Niranjan, who nodded. His dark eyes gleamed above crinkles in his leathery, sun-bronzed skin. She sensed hidden purpose behind his words.

Behind her, Leeta looked over Fatima’s shoulder at him. “Brother, it has long been custom that I oversee the purchases of silk for this household.”

“I am not suggesting someone should usurp your authority, my sister. Surely, the Sultana can judge the quality of the merchant’s silk for herself.”

Fatima turned to Leeta and stroked her arm. “How does Marzuq fare this morning?”

Leeta stopped glaring at Niranjan long enough to answer. “His fever has abated. He is still abed. I can summon him if you….”

Fatima’s hold tightened. “Summon my sick steward from his pallet? Leeta, you must think me heartless. Tend to your husband this morning. I shall see the silk merchant.”

Leeta inhaled sharply and shot a dark look toward her brother, before she sighed and bowed. “As the Sultana wishes.”

Fatima chuckled. “Is Marzuq still such a trial when he is ailing?”

Leeta rolled her eyes heavenward. “You could not understand.” Her shoulders sagged. She disappeared into the family quarters again, where she and Marzuq shared a room.

Niranjan gestured toward the entrance. “Come, my Sultana.”

Fatima led the way and he followed. A groom held the reins of two horses, already saddled. Niranjan rounded Fatima and cupped his hands, offering her aid as she mounted. She grabbed the reins.

“My beloved has returned, hasn’t he? That is why you wanted me to visit the marketplace instead of Leeta. Why hasn’t Faraj come to us? Is he hurt, Niranjan?”

The eunuch avoided her gaze. “I cannot say.”

She frowned at him. More likely, he would not say for some obscure reason only he understood.

Why did Faraj’s return require such secrecy? If he had come home, surely it meant the defeat of the Castillans and the recapture of Tarif. Then Faraj should have arrived in triumph, not entered his own city in secrecy.

Concern and confusion preoccupied Fatima, as she left the grounds with Niranjan by way of the bridge between her home and
al-Jabal Faro
. Guardsmen at the citadel averted their gaze while she and her eunuch rode past in a flurry of dust, which obscured the rectangular towers and massive walls. She and Niranjan took a steep hill at daring speeds, whitewashed and red-roofed houses all a blur on either side of the cobblestones. They entered the bustling precincts of the silk market. Each section of Malaka’s marketplace, allotted to a special area of commerce, reminded Fatima of the crowded
Qaysariyya
at Gharnatah.

Behind a horseshoe archway, expensive garments of every variety and color beckoned buyers’ eager hands brimming with gold
dinars
. A long string of camels, each beast held in the croup of its leader, blocked the entrance to an inn. Fatima pulled her
hijab
over her nose and quelled the stench of the animals. She dismounted without Niranjan’s aid. He led the way up a staircase to the second landing. Loud curses echoed from within. When Niranjan pushed the door open, three merchants rained down violent epithets on each other’s heads.

“Cheaters! Deceivers! I piss on both of you and your wretched silks!”

“I piss on your mother, you filthy dog! You’re the cheat. Your
dinars
line the pockets of the market inspector. God confound you and your lies! Wait until Governor Faraj returns to the city!”

“You dare call anyone else a liar? You miserable son of a donkey and a whore!”

Niranjan pushed past them and grasped Fatima’s hand, pulling her along behind him. They dashed down the narrow hall. Niranjan scratched at the olive wood door at the end. “Master.”

The portal creaked on its hinges. Fatima rushed inside.

Faraj rose from his crouch on the wooden floor, his eyes widening. Fatima swallowed at the sight of him as he unwound the turban that hid the lower half of his face. His sun-burnished cheeks glistened like copper. He wore a simple tunic, trousers and leather slippers, not the armor she had last seen him don nearly four months ago. She rushed toward him, but he grasped and held her at arms’ length. Behind her, the door snapped shut and consigned them to the gloom of the windowless chamber.

He whispered, “I have the stink of the siege and a hard day’s ride upon me, beloved.”

“I don’t care!” She struggled against him. “Faraj, why won’t you kiss or hold me? Why are you here at this inn? Why haven’t you come home to us?”