Sultana's Legacy: A Novel of Moorish Spain, page 3
Doñ Alonso flung his dagger over the wall. The weapon spiraled before it landed with a heavy thud, a short distance from where the Prince sat mounted. Doñ Alonso nodded to his weeping son, bowed his head and turned away.
His shoulders stiff, he strode across the battlements. His steps never faltered. As one, those who ringed the ramparts bowed their heads as he passed them.
Faraj did the same to honor the noble but tragic sacrifice the adversary of Gharnatah had chosen. His heart tore inside his breast for his enemy’s sake.
Prince Juan leapt down from his horse and now brandished Doñ Alonso’s dagger. He dragged the kicking and squealing child against him and forced his head back, exposing the boy’s tender neck. With a snarl directed toward the battlements, he pressed the glittering blade against the pale flesh. Tears flooded the boy’s face. In a swift motion, Prince Juan sliced a deep cut from ear to ear. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc across the glittering sand. Shouts of dismay and horror flowed from those assembled on the citadel walls.
As the thick redness gurgled and spilled down the dying child’s throat, he sagged against his captor. Prince Juan pushed him forward into the sand. The mutilated child fell at the feet of the horse. The stallion nickered and sidestepped the body. A crimson line ran from the dead boy’s wound and pooled on the sand beneath his nearly severed neck. The Castillan Prince tucked Doñ Alonso’s dagger, still stained with blood, into the empty sheath fastened to his belt. He wheeled his horse around and dragged the lifeless body behind him.
No one within the Marinid encampment spoke. Some turned their faces away from Prince Juan, who stared straight ahead. Even the wind stilled.
Faraj sought out Doñ Alonso again. He had halted at a doorway, though he did not turn around. Someone gripped his arm and spoke with him. Doñ Alonso’s shoulders slumped for a moment and he bowed his head. Then he nodded and re-entered the citadel. He never looked upon the grisly, ruby-red trail leading across the white sand.
Faraj whispered, “As a father of two sons whom I love dearly, I shall honor this sacrifice. I cannot taint this battlefield with the blood of our enemy now that his child’s life has been stolen in such a way.”
Beside him, Muhammad shook his head. “Then you are a fool.”
His murky gaze met Faraj’s own. His weighty hand grasped Faraj’s lean arm. “If you return to Malaka, I pray you shall hold your sons close. Tell them how much you love them and what you have sacrificed for them.”
“I shall. If I am ever to return home, I need your help. There is a commander among the Marinids, who holds great sway over their leaders and warriors. He would not trust me to negotiate a peaceable solution with him.”
“Your old reputation still bedevils you?”
“It does. However, you have always possessed the repute of a fair man, less given to…underhanded means to achieve your ends. He might trust you instead of me.”
“Who is this man?”
“He is Abdallah of Ashqilula, Fatima’s uncle. He was an enemy of the Sultanate. He may still be. Yet, he is also my greatest hope for the future of Tarif.”
Chapter 2
Old Wounds
Prince Faraj
Tarif, Al-Andalus: Dhu al-Qa`da 693 AH (Tarifa, Andalusia: October AD 1294)
With a shrug, Faraj ignored Muhammad’s open-mouthed gape. “Don’t look so shocked. We have played this part with the Ashqilula before.”
Muhammad scratched his balding pate. “Yes, but do you grasp the full meaning of what you’re about to do? You would have an Ashqilula chieftain, the avowed enemy of our clan, abandon the Marinid cause and break with those who gave him a home when he had none.”
Faraj raised an eyebrow. “You are well-informed of his circumstances.”
Muhammad sputtered, “I am not so ignorant as you would believe, brother! Abdallah of Ashqilula is no sentimental fool. His kinship with your wife aside, why do you think he would undertake the risk?”
“He has done it before. He abandoned the unjust cause of his kinsmen before they surrendered to the Sultan of Gharnatah.”
“Yet, he is cautious. Abdallah only revealed himself until after all the Ashqilula chieftains were dead.”
Muhammad paused and drew closer. “Ibrahim of Ashqilula promised to hunt down and kill Abdallah for his betrayal, except the old man died suddenly. He did not survive a month in al-Maghrib el-Aska. A silent assassin took his life in the night. A clever man to have snuck past Ibrahim’s cadre of guards and poisoned his evening tisane.”
“Do the Marinids still offer a reward for the capture of that assassin?”
“I would not know. Ibrahim has been dead for fifteen years. No one shall ever discover his murderer now.”
“I am certain of it.” Faraj had known for several years that his wife’s chief eunuch, Niranjan, bore the responsibility for Ibrahim’s sudden death. There was no cause to reveal the truth to anyone now, not even Muhammad.
When Muhammad eyed him with an unwavering gaze, Faraj continued, “Ibrahim took many lives, including that of my wife’s mother. He deserved his end. Speak no more of him. Instead, tell me how I avoid my own death at Abdallah’s vengeful hands.”
“Even if you succeeded in placating him long enough for him to listen, how would you convince him to withdraw his men?”
Faraj scowled at Muhammad. “You’re supposed to help me find answers, not raise further questions.”
Muhammad shrugged.
Faraj said, “Fatima has described her uncle. He is a man much like you, honorable and deserving of the devotion of his men. Send word to him. If you spoke on my behalf, he would believe my intentions.”
“And, if he does not believe me?”
“He must.” Faraj gripped the hilt of the sword at his side. “He must, for the sake of us all.”
He risked his life in this gamble. The Ashqilula would surely remember him.
One year after Faraj had taken control of Malaka, the combined forces of King Sancho’s father Alfonso X of Castilla-Leon and the Marinid Sultan united against Gharnatah. They came with the Ashqilula, an enemy Faraj had never thought to see again. Swift, two-pronged attacks occurred at the port cities of Tarif and al-Jazirah al-Khadra. Afterward, the Marinid galleys sailed for Malaka.
The combined Ashqilula and Marinid forces had tried an incursion on the beach the first night. Faraj readied his men for them. Surprised in their turn by the defenders, none among the invaders lived. Faraj took no prisoners and offered no terms for ransom. Everyone died by his order. He held his city until the Sultan’s reinforcements arrived from the capital. By then, Marinid naval forces had surrounded the port.
A second wave of Ashqilula landed on the same beach and found the bodies of their clan members rotting on the sand. As before, Faraj’s men ensured they filled the air with the screams of dying men and painted the sand copper with the blood of his enemies.
Later, the victorious warriors of Malaka gathered the severed heads of their attackers into sacks and flung them into the White Sea. Faraj left the rest of their mutilated and bloated carcasses as a fine feast for the sea birds.
Now, he stroked the length of his beard. Yes, the Ashqilula would remember him well.
***
Faraj rowed a small boat with Khalid, Muhammad and one of Muhammad’s guardsmen across the White Sea. A star-filled sky illuminated the late evening. Crackling sparks from cooking fires in the Marinid encampment glittered across the landscape.
The craft bumped against the black-caulked side of a sleek, lowlying Marinid galley. Dark eyes peered through the holes that held the oars. Faraj averted his gaze. Still he could not help but wonder about the cruelty of life in service on a galley.
He nodded to Muhammad, who groaned and muttered, “I remain uncertain about the wisdom of this plan. So, Abdallah agreed to meet with me. He does not know you are coming, too. He is still the enemy. He might try to kill us both.”
Faraj rolled his eyes heavenward. “Either you intend to help me persuade him or not. Why else would I have asked you to come? You don’t have to talk to him. Keep your tongue behind your teeth if you have only foolish words to offer.”
Despite the shadows of evening, Muhammad’s dark brown gaze narrowed visibly, before he grumbled, “I’m nervous. I cannot help it. This is dangerous.”
A deep baritone voice rumbled over their heads. “Yes, very dangerous, especially with you two talking so much.”
Faraj looked up the side of the ship, making out the image of a tall man who leaned over the railing. Another stood beside him holding a brass lantern. The taller one shook the length of a rope ladder and lowered it down. When Faraj tugged it toward his chest, it offered little resistance. He hoped they had secured the rope. Could he trust Abdallah not to cut the fibers while he scaled the ladder?
With Khalid’s aid, Faraj climbed and leapt over the side and on to the deck. Behind him, it seemed Muhammad had a little more difficulty, as Khalid strained and groaned below. Again rolling his eyes, Faraj leaned over and heaved Muhammad into the galley. His brother drew deep gulps of air into his lungs after his harsh exertion. Faraj shook his head and aided Khalid. Muhammad’s man remained in the boat, as it bobbed on the shallow waves.
A wizened Abdallah of Ashqilula looked them over with large, nearly opaque eyes. Then he scratched a thin, graying beard. Pockmarks had gouged holes in his olive-brown cheeks. Thin hanks of graying hair covered his rounded head. Faraj eyed him steadily, wondering when the man would note his resemblance to the Sultans of Gharnatah. He supposed it would not take long. He mused that the placid expression on Abdallah’s face was hardly one of welcome, only curiosity.
Abdallah set his large fists, dotted with brown age spots, on his hips. He stood with narrow, sandaled feet spread apart. The rest of his form disappeared under a black jubba and a voluminous Maghribi cloak, the burnus.
He asked, “Which one of you is Prince Muhammad ibn Ismail of the Nasrids?”
Muhammad swallowed loudly and trembled beside Faraj, who cuffed him lightly between the shoulder blades. With Muhammad glaring at him, Faraj pointed and answered. “He is.”
Abdallah offered them a rueful grin. “Then you must be his equally foolish brother, Prince Faraj ibn Ismail, yes?”
Faraj’s jaw tightened. “If you knew me, why did you inquire?”
“I wanted to be certain which of you would prove to be a greater cause for concern. I wanted to determine which of you fools married my niece Fatima. I have judged correctly that it was not the fat one.”
Faraj gasped unwittingly and Muhammad flushed the color of a pomegranate. Abdallah’s thinned lips relaxed in the semblance of a smile.
“You must have guessed that I would speak with you for Fatima’s sake. You knew I would remember the child of my sister. When I received your missive, Prince Faraj…ah, yes, I know it was your request and not that of your brother, I suspected you were the most imprudent man I would ever meet. Or, the most bold. A man would have to be courageous to hold the heart of a princess of the Nasrids. Understand that Fatima is the only reason you shall leave this ship alive. The enmity between our families has cut too deeply. For her sake, I dare not open that old wound or carve new ones into your conniving hide.”
His owlish gaze swiveled to Muhammad. “Wait below in the boat. You have no part in the conversation to follow.”
Muhammad’s deep sigh betrayed his turbulent emotions. “I would stay, if only to ensure Faraj’s safety.”
Faraj cocked his head and looked askance at Muhammad, who shrugged.
Abdallah said, “I do not invite you to remain with us. I have given my word. You and your brother shall leave this ship alive. Do not test me. Disembark.”
Faraj placed a hand on Muhammad’s shoulder. “I thank you for your loyalty. I have done little in life to deserve it.”
Muhammad nodded. “No, you have not deserved it.”
With a grunt and some effort, he heaved himself over the side of the ship. A yelp and an ominous splash followed. Faraj rushed toward the railing. Abdallah’s hand on his chest stayed him.
Abdallah glanced over the side, his man behind him holding the lantern aloft. From below, Muhammad’s groans and sputters filled the air.
“I have you, my prince, come. The water is cold tonight.”
Muhammad cursed his guardsman. “I know, you wretched son of a wild ass! I’m the one who fell in it!”
Abdallah straightened and leaned against the railing. He looked beyond Faraj to where Khalid stood.
Faraj nodded to his captain. “Go help my brother into the boat. Await me below.”
Khalid saluted Faraj and scrambled over the side of the galley.
Abdallah crossed his arms over his barrel chest. His persistent stare held Faraj’s own. “Why did you risk stirring the embers of hatred between our two clans with this nighttime visitation?”
“Neither of us can change the past. What concerns me is the present. Why are you here, Abdallah, serving alongside a Castillan prince who would dishonor himself with the murder of a child just to win this conflict?”
Abdallah grunted and raised one eyebrow in a questioning slant. “Are we not allied in this campaign, Prince Faraj? You and your men have not abandoned it. Is that why you have come, to sway me in your stead? Why should I care for the dead child of a Moor who has betrayed his people and their blood?”
Faraj shook his head. “You cannot mean Doñ Alonso? Prince Juan told us that he was born in Leon. He and his father before him have served the Castillans all their lives.”
“He is a Moor by blood, even if not by faith. His grandfather was born in Al-Andalus. Yet, he holds to the beliefs of the Christians. Why should I care for his suffering?”
“You understand the nature of war and just dealings. What happened here was not fair recompense for Guzman’s rejection of his heritage. It was not a test of one army’s mettle against another. Murder and deceit flowed upon the sands of Tarif today.”
Abdallah’s gaze shifted to the encampment on the shore. “Speak your terms.”
Faraj followed his stare. “Leave, retire from the field of this dishonorable battle. I saw the banners of your men unfurled among the mounted archer and cavalry divisions. How many warriors do you command?”
“Two thousand,” Abdallah muttered, still looking at the beachhead.
Faraj nodded. Two thousand archers and riders amounted to less than half of their combined forces. That left another two thousand Marinids, in addition to fifteen hundred Gharnati warriors and less than three hundred and fifty Castillan and Portuguese mercenaries whom Prince Juan had bribed into his service. Perhaps less than a thousand Christians protected the citadel at Tarif. If the defenses held, if King Sancho sent reinforcements south across the White Sea, he might lift the siege in time.
Although Faraj’s head warred with his heart, warning him against such treasonous thoughts, he continued, “Take your men and go.”
Abdallah pinned him with a ferocious glare. “Where should I go? Al-Maghrib el-Aska has been my refuge these last seven years. You do not know what it is to be hunted, to be without a home.”
Faraj’s belly soured. Bile rose up in his throat. He tamped down the fear and buried it beneath his resignation. Even before he spoke the words, he knew this action could only lead to his death. Before he surrendered to his fate, he would return to Malaka one last time, to his beloved.
He said, “I shall soon learn, after I have left this battlefield.”
Abdallah turned his back on him, his shoulders rigid.
Faraj approached, heart hammering in his chest, his footfalls light and cautious. The galley swayed beneath his feet.
“The Castillan commander cannot surrender now. He has paid the price of delay and inaction with his son’s life. His honor is at stake. Prince Juan’s treachery has sullied whatever you and your men might do here from this day forth. Leave this place with your honor intact. A man such as you would be welcomed in any other land.”
Abdallah’s stark stare returned. His mouth tightened in a stubborn line. “Except the land of my birth, Al-Andalus. You cannot offer me protection here, not when your Sultan has vowed to take the heads of any among the Ashqilula who ever dared return. Where should we go, my two thousand warriors and I? Would you have me and my men abandon the Marinids, so they can call us cowards?”
Faraj shook his head. “Let others call you men of honor, who did not gain from the grief of another. There is no dignity in defeating a commander already broken by the death of his son.”
Abdallah’s lips pursed in barely suppressed fury.
Faraj added, “You have the power to change the course of these events. Men have always flocked to your banners and aided you, because they know you believe in justice and truth. If you are rightly guided, then you know what you must do. The Marinids cannot win without you. Could they strike at you in al-Maghrib el-Aska?”
Abdallah shook his head. “My wives and children remain safe in Jumhuriyat Misr, the land of the pyramids. It is where my wives were born, where our children have always lived. They have never desired to leave it and I have never forced them.”
“Then it has been seven years since you last saw them?”
“Seven long years.”
“Do you have sons, Abdallah?”
“Yes, I have five strong sons.”
“Fatima and I also have sons, two beloved boys whom I treasure. A father’s love for his children knows no limits. To lose a son, to lose any child must pain a father. Still, we can only imagine the pain Doñ Alonso must be feeling. Prince Juan has not buried Guzman’s son. He has left the body to rot like carrion at the edge of camp. Would you let someone murder and defile your sons without seeking vengeance? If you would not, think of what you can do here.”
Abdallah made no reply.
Faraj groaned and rubbed the back of his neck.
At length, Abdallah turned to him. “You speak with deep emotion for your children.”
“It is second only to the devotion I bear their mother.”
“Do you love my sister’s child so much?”
