Sultana's Legacy (25 page)

Fatima stared at Nasr. “What happened, brother?”

“Last night, the chief eunuch Faisal came to
Ummi
. He warned her that Sultan Muhammad intends to give her to the old governor of al-Mariyah. She drank mandrake juice, mixed with wine.”

Nasr paused and pointed at his mother’s body slave. “That creature Sabela procured it for her!”

“Do not, my son. She did as I bid her.” Nur’s voice barely rose above a whisper.

Fatima dashed to her side and took her free hand. Nur opened her eyes. They were wide, the pupils like large black orbs.

Fatima kissed her fingers. “Nur, how could you do this?”

The
kadin
smiled weakly. “I belong with him, with your father. I want to be with him. Only then can I be safe from your brother.”

“No! No, I can keep you safe. You could have escaped to Malaka with me. Please. Oh Nur, please do not do this. Nasr needs you now, more than ever.”

Nur’s head lolled on her pillow. She dragged her hand from Sabela’s grasp and beckoned Nasr.

Fatima’s brother moved on wooden legs and sank down next to her. He scowled at Sabela, who shrank away. Her sobs vied with Shams ed-Duna’s own.

Nur reached for Nasr’s hand and placed it on her stomach. Her grip on Fatima’s fingers tightened briefly, as she placed her hand over the young man’s own. A tear trickled down her cheek.

“Protect him, Fatima. He is a prince of Gharnatah, but he is also the son of a slave. Protect him! I never could.”

A spasm racked her body. Her hips lifted from the bed.

Fatima got to her feet and grabbed Sabela. “How do we stop this? I won’t lose her, too. Do you understand me? How do we stop the mandrake poison from killing her?”

Sabela shook her head, her graying hair wild around her puffy, pale face. “I don’t know how! I swear I don’t.”

Fatima shoved her away. “Shams, stop crying and help me! Give her water, anything to purge her belly. There must be something that can help us.”

***

A servant brought word that Niranjan al-Kadim and Fatima’s maidservants had arrived in Gharnatah just after dawn. Fatima found her eunuch in the courtyard. She hugged him, as she had not done since she was a little girl.

“Oh, how I have needed you at my side!”

“I am here now. How may I aid you?”

Fatima gestured for Basma and Haniya to remain with the pack animals. She dragged her eunuch to the
kadin
’s chamber. Nur had started vomiting.

A sigh of relief spread in waves through Fatima’s stomach. “Good, if she brings up the mandrake poison from her belly, she can still survive.”

Beside her, Niranjan said nothing.

She looked at him. “This is a good sign, is it not?”

He did not reply. He supported Nur, sitting behind her and holding her upright. Her head lolled on his shoulder. She seemed focused on a spot on the ceiling, except for the space of several breaths, in which she did not blink.

Fatima lunged to her side and pressed a hand over her heart. It thrummed inside her breast still, but very faintly.

She looked at Niranjan. “Do something! Anything.”

He shook his head. “I cannot, my Sultana.”

Within moments, Nur slipped into a stupor. She never recovered. Fatima could not hear her heartbeat.

Niranjan moved aside and Fatima cradled Nur’s body in her arms. She crooned in her ear softly. Sometimes, a brief spasm shuddered through the
kadin
. Then the tremors lessened. Her breathing became shallower. Fatima held her, even when her head rolled on Fatima’s shoulder and a final rattling breath escaped her. 

A woman started sobbing again. Fatima did not look up to be certain whether it was Shams or Sabela. She was beyond caring.

Niranjan moved to her side. “My Sultana, you must let her go. The lady Nur is at peace now.”

She jerked away. “Leave her be. Do not touch her!”

“My Sultana, you can do nothing,” Niranjan whispered through trembling lips. “Your brother cannot hurt the
kadin
now. She is safe. She is with your father.”

Fatima rocked Nur’s body. Rage welled inside her, but she was not angry with her brother.

“Why didn’t he do it? Why didn’t Father marry her? She could have been his wife. Then Muhammad could never have moved against her. Nur would still be alive if Father had wedded her.”

Shams stood with her hands clasped. “Your father wanted to marry her. He asked her every year on her birthday. She always refused him.”

While Fatima gaped in stunned silence, Shams continued, “He could have forced her. Yet, he wanted her to wed him willingly. Your own mother resented her marriage to him. An alliance with the Marinids dictated his union with me. He wanted someone who had chosen him, as he had chosen her. At first, Nur was afraid of what would happen if she married him. She dreaded your anger.”

“She feared me?”

Shams blinked back tears. “She knew how much you loved your father. You did not accept her, at first.”

“But that changed! She became one of my dearest friends, a true friend, like you.”

“Yes, in time, you became that for her, as well. When she had your friendship and mine, she felt it no longer mattered if she was the Sultan’s wife or his slave. She was the queen of his heart. She had my husband’s heart and he had hers. It was enough for her.”

Chapter 15

Shades of the Past

Prince Faraj

Gharnatah, Al-Andalus: Ramadan 701 AH (Granada, Andalusia: May AD 1302)

Faraj sat across from his master in the Sultan’s quarters at the top of the watchtower. Sunlight filtered through the slit windows on the first day of the fast. Muhammad set pieces on an ebony wood chessboard. Faraj recalled having played upon it with his late uncle, Fatima’s grandfather.

“It remains in remarkable condition, my Sultan, even after fifty years. Do you know the story of it?”

The Sultan shook his head. “Only that my grandfather treasured it, as did my father.”

“They did so because my father gave it to your grandfather. One of the last gifts he had sent to Gharnatah before his demise.”

“My father held another prized possession too, my grandfather’s
khanjar
. Those damned slaves of mine had better find it. I shall slice open another neck if the culprit doesn’t admit it!”

A deep spasm ripped across Faraj’s belly at his cousin’s casual cruelty. His gaze strayed to the guardsman, who cowered, prostrate on the floor. He had held this position while the Sultan arranged the gaming pieces in a leisurely manner. Faraj suspected that the sovereign took great pleasure in keeping people waiting on him. A streak of cruelty ran through him that neither his grandfather nor father ever possessed. Had Faraj done the right thing in committing his son to serve such a man? Was there another choice?

The Sultan glanced at him and then followed his gaze. “I had forgotten this fool was here.”

Faraj doubted that statement. The Sultan demanded, “Well, you have prostrated yourself long enough, so what have you to report?”

The guard raised his head. “My noble Sultan, you commanded me to visit
al-Quasaba
and see the jailor.”

“Yes, to stop those screams at night. They disturb my sleep.”

Faraj settled against the chair at his back. “Who disturbs your rest?”

The Sultan eyed him. “My father’s personal slaves and bodyguards.”

“You have jailed all of them?”

“All that remain, but they have proved hardy. My father fed them too well. I suppose it is for the best if some among them are still alive.” He nodded to the guard. “Bring one of them to me. Man or woman, I do not care. Someone shall tell me where my grandfather’s
khanjar
lies hidden.”

With a wave of his burly hand, he dismissed the sentry. Instead, the guard stood and lingered on the spot. The fool tempted the Sultan’s anger.

The Sultan’s gaze narrowed. The chair creaked beneath his solid frame, as he leaned forward. “Is there more you would tell me?”

“The jailor begs pity on the slaves. He said he could not bear the screams of the condemned. When I was there, he tossed them some scraps of bread through the iron bars of the trap door over their heads.”

“What?!” The Sultan lunged at him and grabbed the man by the collar of his tunic. The frightened soldier stared at him with eyes that bulged wide.

“Say it again,” the Sultan ordered him through gritted teeth.

The guardsman trembled and struggled to get the words out. When he did so, Muhammad shoved him backward.

“He pitied them! The fool pitied them! How dare Ahmad defy me?”

He clapped his fists against his temples and whirled toward Faraj, who clasped his hands together and averted his eyes. He kept still. Any sudden movement might draw the Sultan’s anger toward him.  

Ragged breaths escaped Muhammad. Then he rubbed his hands together and turned his back on Faraj. The guard remained on the floor. The Sultan advanced on him.

“You say the jailor threw them dry bread only? What, nothing to drink, too?”

The guard shook his head. Faraj folded his arms over his chest and waited.

The Sultan dismissed the hapless man and laughed. “That was not very thoughtful. He cannot give them dry bread with nothing else to ease their parched throats. They must have some drink to wash their meal down.”

He turned toward Faraj. “Come with me.”

Faraj followed the Sultan down three flights of stairs within the squat tower at
al-Quasaba
, flanked by his bodyguards in a line going down the steps, including the one who had just left the Sultan’s presence.

The men emerged from the square central chamber on the second floor. Daylight shimmered between the rows of whitewashed houses, including the largest that belonged to the jailor, lined either side of the cobblestone street. A drainage ditch in the middle of the road carried water down the slopes of the
Sabika
. Some of the officers idled in the doorway, while their children played between the rows of houses.

A trap door with an aperture and iron bars covered the subterranean dungeon. Whimpers and mutters echoed from the hole. The jailor, a crook-backed pale man named Ahmad, whose head seemed too big for his body, stood with his whip over the trap door.

The Sultan gestured toward the jailor. Two of his bodyguards rushed forward and seized Ahmad. They jerked his arms behind him. The man yelped in fright, as they kicked his legs out from under him and forced him to his knees. Muhammad strolled to the trap door and peered through its aperture into the yawning chasm of darkness. He smiled again.

Faraj glanced at the poor jailor, but returned his attention to the Sultan when he spoke.

“Wretched people, my jailor has been kind enough to offer you food. Now, I shall give you something to drink.”

He untied the sash of his robe. Faraj gaped, thinking he meant to urinate over the heads of his prisoners. Shame-faced, he looked away. Neither the Sultan’s father nor grandfather would ever have been so cruel to prisoners.

Muhammad shouted into the hole. “Your jailor showed you mercy. So can I!”

Faraj stared, transfixed. Though he recoiled inwardly, he could no longer turn from the scene. The soldiers shoved Ahmad at the Sultan’s feet. Muhammad gripped the thin, black strands of the jailor’s hair. He jerked back the man’s head, exposing the neck.

Faraj covered his hand with his mouth, realizing at last that the prisoners would not suffer the indignity of Muhammad’s piss raining down upon them.

The Sultan drew a sword buckled at his side beneath the
jubba
. While his men stretched Ahmad’s arms, he swung the blade wide. It sliced through the jailor’s whippet-thin neck. Blood spurted and arced in a crimson spray from the stump of the headless body.

Muhammad laughed and held the head aloft. Fat red droplets cascaded on the prisoners below.

“Now, your thirst is appeased, is it not?”

Faraj swallowed the bile in his throat and gripped the wall beside him. A madman ruled the Sultanate, a tyrant to whom he had pledged his loyalty. Had Fatima’s father known the extent of his son’s cruelty? Was she right to claim that Muhammad had murdered the old Sultan? Is that what her father had meant, when he clutched Faraj’s tunic and begged him to tell her she was right?

Princess Fatima

Every morning for weeks after Nur al-Sabah’s death and burial, Fatima lingered on a pallet in the
kadin
’s former quarters. She had claimed them to remain close to Shams ed-Duna in her final days. Although Sabela screamed and warned her that her mistress’ uneasy spirit would haunt the place, Fatima was never afraid. Nur was her friend until death. She had no reason to fear an apparition.

Ismail remained the most sympathetic to her plight. Often, before he attended to his new duties as
wazir
, he sat with her just after
Salat al-Fajr
for an hour each morning and held her hand. They did not often speak, only sat together and comforted each other. Their quiet communion offered a rare moment of peace in Fatima’s ever-changing world.

For the first time in several days, when she looked at her eldest son, a spark of vitality rekindled within her. His tender smile had greeted her upon first awaking. For a moment, she pretended that everything remained the same. She caressed his chin, the hairs of his neatly trimmed beard.

She whispered, “You were the first child I carried within me. I loved you without ever having seen your sweet face.”

He clasped her hand in his and kissed it.

He had grown even more impossibly handsome than his father. While she loved all her children dearly, a special bond existed between Ismail and her, which no other relationship rivaled.

“You are pensive today, my son.”

He murmured, “The governors of Qumarich, Wadi-Ash and Arsiduna have approached the Sultan with offers of their daughters.”