Sultana's Legacy: A Novel of Moorish Spain, page 4
“She is my heart, my life, my very breath.”
Abdallah chuckled. “You could have simply said ‘yes’ and I would have understood.”
“No, for you could not know the measure of my feelings for her in such a simple answer. The love I bear her is as unfathomable as the depths of the White Sea, even to me.”
Abdallah grunted and looked across the blue-black water. The crescent moon’s reflection glittered in its depths.
“If you disobey your Sultan, you condemn Fatima to an unfortunate widowhood.”
“She shall know I met my death with conviction in my mind and everlasting love for her in my heart.”
“Don’t you think she has suffered enough losses?” Abdallah relaxed against the railing. “I mourn for her mother still. I shall mourn Aisha until my end.”
Faraj heaved a sigh. The conversation had turned dangerous. He could not stop now, not when he sensed Abdallah’s amenability to his suggestion.
“Fatima had told me that relations with her mother were strained in her childhood.”
“Aisha loved her child. Surely, your wife must know that.”
“She does. Each day I see her love for our children and her unending devotion to them. Fatima said she had made a promise to her mother before she died, to love our children always. My wife has become the woman, the mother she is today because of your sister.”
“I have said before, Fatima is a child of my sister’s spirit. I am glad to know Aisha lives on in her daughter.”
“There is something else you must know, about the day your sister died. Fatima has long desired that you should know. If she were here, she would have wanted me to tell you. I know you must believe that the old Sultan had the princess Aisha killed….”
“I do not. I know it was Ibrahim of Ashqilula.” Abdallah’s gaze found the coast again. “I have known for fifteen years, just before I left Al-Andalus.”
Faraj edged closer to him. “How?”
“My former slave Ulayyah finally told me. I had found her after Ibrahim dallied with her, as was his custom. She cursed me for giving her to a murderer, the man who had taken my sister’s life. For so long, Ulayyah had kept the secret from me. Her betrayal was more than I could bear, as was Ibrahim’s own.
“Ibrahim had surrounded himself with loyal men. I could not harm him personally. I took my vengeance in the only way that I could, in the manner that would hurt him the most. I abandoned the Ashqilula cause and took my fifteen hundred warriors into Jumhuriyat Misr, where I found a new life far from such treachery.”
Faraj nodded, comprehending at last why Abdallah had fled Al-Andalus so unexpectedly. His sudden departure had paved the way for the eventual defeat of the Ashqilula.
“You should have taken the slave Ulayyah with you. She met her death at Ibrahim’s hands. He strangled her.”
When Abdallah whirled toward him, open-mouthed, Faraj rushed on. “Her children are safe. The boy Faisal serves as a eunuch in the Sultan’s harem. His two elder sisters are the servants of the Sultana Shams ed-Duna, my master’s queen. The younger twins, Basma and Haniya, serve my Fatima at Malaka.”
Abdallah gripped the railing and bowed his head. The wood groaned beneath the pressure of his hands. “I could not forgive Ulayyah. Perhaps she could not forgive herself.”
Faraj remained silent for a time and then cleared his throat. “Fifteen years ago, you did what was right. Without your support, the Ashqilula fell. Now, you have a chance to do the same again, here.”
With a stiff bow, Faraj gripped the sinewy rope, vaulted over the side of the galley and clambered back into the waiting boat below.
The stars framed Abdallah’s head. Even in the gloom and with the torchlight behind him, tears glistened on his cheeks. Faraj took a last look at him and then rowed with his counterparts back to shore.
When they reached the coast, he stepped on the shifting sand with Muhammad, while their men pulled the boat inland. From the center of the encampment, loud shouts echoed a warning of some vicious argument.
Faraj dismissed Khalid, waved Muhammad off and sank down. Then Faraj drew up his knees, clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them. His gaze contemplated the black hulks crowding the midnight blue waters of the White Sea.
***
At dawn the next morning, horns resounded throughout the encampment. In silence, Faraj and Khalid rolled up their prayer rugs. Neither man had slept. Both donned hooded, chainmail tunics and brass helmets. Faraj slid his sword into its scabbard, his khanjar in its sheath and fastened the sword belt around his waist. Khalid handed him a tasseled shield, bearing the crescent moon of the Faith at its rounded center.
Marinid catapults hit the citadel’s defenses, as they usually did each morning. They concentrated on the battered length of the wall near the eastern gate, which Doñ Alonso’s men had valiantly attempted to reinforce each night. Now it gave way, in a deep roar of crumbling rock. The screams of men vied with falling debris. The impact reverberated through the surrounding rock face. Shards of dust sprayed the air. When the thick clouds cleared, the jagged edges of what remained on either side of the breach looked as though the Hand of God had ripped away the masonry.
Heavy boulders whizzed overhead, pummeling the shattered remnants of the wall. Castillan common knights, distinguishable from their noble counterparts by their round shields of Moorish design, poured out of the rift.
Marinid light horse cavalry, with camel units in support, surged to meet them. The more powerful Castillan knights with kite-shaped shields and long swords fought for Prince Juan. He hung back in their midst.
The Ashqilula banners billowed in the midst of the other forces. Faraj spat in the sand and turned to Khalid, who stared stone-faced at the fighting near the wall. The edges of his scar were nearly white.
Faraj asked, “Nervous?”
“No,” his captain said, his voice barely rising above a whisper. “If you tell me to fight, I shall fight. I value my life more than that of the enemy. I have no scruples about killing any man who raises his sword against me.”
The Ashqilula under Abdallah’s command drew up in a solid, unbreakable formation, bowmen hemmed in on either side by cavalry. They seemed prepared to ride out in support of the Marinid cavalry. Faraj shook his head.
Suddenly, the Ashqilula changed direction. They veered to the left and down to the coastline, toward the galleys bobbing along the shore. They cut a clear path between the Marinids at Tarif’s wall and the rest of the invasion forces.
Faraj’s heart thudded so loudly that it vied with the shouts of confusion and cheers from some in the Marinid encampment. Khalid grinned and clapped him on the back. “We make our move, yes?”
“Yes.”
Chaos descended now. The Marinid cavalry fell back from the breach in the wall, while those at the rear engaged the Ashqilula warriors fleeing the battle. Metal clashed and clanged. Prince Juan cursed and whipped his horse, urging his men into the fray. Archers on the walls fired into the melee.
The Marinid forces scattered in disarray. Half their formations pursued the Ashqilula, vainglory or suicide their possible motives. Many of them died as Abdallah’s crossbowmen protected the riders at the forefront. The other Marinid troops ran headlong toward the breach near Tarif’s gate. They risked death under the mounts of more Castillan knights emerging from behind the walls. Doñ Alonso’s archers also found easy targets. Volley after volley flew from Tarif’s ramparts, piercing armor and flesh, man and beast. Screams echoed across the shoreline. Gharnatah’s troops, caught up in the uncertainty, looked to their commanders for clear direction and found none.
Faraj said, “Those who believe and submit to the Will of God accept their destiny. Qadar, as Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, has written for every soul, speaks of all that has happened and all that shall happen.” He turned and looked at Khalid. “Today, we make our own destiny. Come, we return to Malaka. Then, on to Gharnatah.”
Chapter 3
Sacrifices
Princess Fatima
Malaka, Al-Andalus: Dhu al-Qa`da 693 AH (Malaga, Andalusia: October AD 1294)
Waves washed ashore at Malaka on an otherwise quiet late morning. Fatima’s gray Andalusi mare shied away whenever the tide surged. As sea spray billowed, the horse snorted loudly. With a steady hand, Fatima held the mare’s reins and soothed her mount.
Her peripheral gaze lingered on the sinewy young man who sat his black stallion with comfortable ease. Whenever she looked at her eldest child, Ismail, she saw her father. After fifteen years, a wiry frame had replaced her son’s tendency toward plumpness.
The autumn wind picked up along the shore, rippling through strands of his once-auburn hair, now the dark, russet-tipped color of her father’s own. His keen eyes and placid, intelligent expression evoked her father’s image. The same hawkish nose sniffed at the sea. A smile and drawn-out sigh eased the composure of his angular features.
“Whenever you stare at me, Ummi, especially when you think I do not notice, I often wonder whether you are seeing me or someone else.”
Ismail’s lowered tone, more a man’s than that of a boy, startled her. Her mare shifted on the sand. She tugged the reins and calmed the horse. When her gaze returned to Ismail, he offered her a sly grin.
He possessed the same innate understanding and curiosity she had shown as a child. However, she suspected the pride and instincts that ruled his father dominated him, too. He held himself ramrod straight in the saddle, pride emanating in his elegant, though rigid bearing.
He always observed in silent prudence like her, studying people and situations, perceiving their nature with his keen glance. Yet, he reminded her of the men in their family, with his predatory instincts, always cutting to the heart of a matter and finding the underlying vulnerabilities. She did not doubt he would become a formidable governor of Malaka someday. Yet, she hoped that would not occur for many years to come.
She swallowed against a sudden lump in her throat, thwarting speech for a moment. “Who else would I see except my fine son?”
He flashed a knowing smile. “Your father, perhaps. Certainly not mine.”
His gaze tracked the course of the undulating coastline and her stare followed his. Even at a vast distance, the rocky promontory at Jabal Tarik dominated the southwestern view. Beyond it, the craggy landscape of Tarif rose. Her husband camped along its shore, ready to bring death to her father’s Castillan enemies. Did he yet live?
When she clutched at her chest at the painful thought, Ismail’s stare flitted back to hers with hawk-eyed precision. She rubbed at some imaginary ache above her breast with two fingers. Beneath her, the mare danced on the sand again, signaling the return of the tide.
“Does he live, Ummi?”
She nodded. “I would feel it if he did not. Your father lives.”
He did not question her certainty. His gaze alighted on the coastline again. A sigh of relief rippled through her. She sagged in the leather saddle.
Worry had plagued her for weeks after Faraj’s departure. Yet, her words to her son comforted her now. She sighed and palmed her rounded belly beneath the loose folds of her tunic.
“I understand why Grandfather required Father’s help at Tarif, but he should not have left us now, Ummi.”
“You shall inherit your father’s responsibilities someday. This land is yours and you shall defend it, as your father has done. When your Sultan calls upon your sword, you must answer. Do not blame your father for doing his duty now, or my father for demanding it. Blame King Sancho of Castilla-Leon instead.”
Ismail snorted. “The Brave! His people should call him the Oath-breaker instead!”
Fatima nodded. “You see him as you should, my son. When King Sancho took Tarif two years ago, my father had every reason to expect the city would return to Gharnatah’s control. King Sancho lied to my father and broke the terms of our last treaty.”
“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.
