Sultana's Legacy (34 page)

The court filled with murmurs, some of assent and others like Fatima, who wondered why anyone dared mention the name of the old Sultan.

Fatima’s stare darted to Nasr, who leaned forward on his chair.

“So it shall be with me. What would you have of me, Prince Faraj?”

Faraj glanced at Fatima before his gaze returned to Nasr. “The life of your brother, Sultan Muhammad the third.”

Silence filled the room. Then grumbling followed. The governors closest to Faraj shied away. Fatima stared at his back, incredulous that he would make such a demand before the whole court.

He continued, “I would have your oath, my Sultan, that your brother Muhammad shall suffer no harm by your hand or order. If you swear it, your sacred vow cannot be broken.”

Nasr stood, his brow furrowed. “I know what is required of an oath-taker!” He sank down on the throne again. “I shall swear that pledge now. I vow by the noble blood of my ancestors that my brother Muhammad, the former Sultan of Gharnatah, shall never suffer harm at my hand or by my order. He may live out the rest of his days in exile at Munakkab.”

Fatima expelled the breath she did not know she held and moved beside her husband. “Are you mad, Faraj?”

He scowled at her. “A woman does not speak to a man in this court. It seems you have forgotten the ways of our forefathers.”

Their gazes held, until she looked away. Nasr stared in their direction, his icy stare narrowing on Faraj. She glanced at her husband again, whose grim visage mirrored Nasr’s own.

As the pair glared at each other, Fatima clutched at the sudden tightness in her chest. Her brother had little choice except to give his assent to Faraj’s request, but he possessed the pride of the Nasrids. He would not soon forget how Faraj had compelled his oath, reminded all the courtiers that Nasr had stolen the throne, as Muhammad had also done. She feared the future, for herself, her husband, and brother.

When the
Hajib
stepped forward, Nasr’s gaze softened and he waved Ibn al-Jayyab to his side. After a whispered exchange, the
Hajib
looked out onto the assembly.

“The Sultana Fatima bint Muhammad, daughter of our beloved master Muhammad
al-Fakih
shall come forward. The Sultan commands it.”

Faraj cast a sharp glower at Fatima. She returned his stare, bewildered. Other women milled around the court, but no one openly acknowledged their presence.

On unsteady legs, she moved toward Nasr with her gaze fixed on the ground. She offered her obeisance again. His light touch on her head commanded her. His wide smile greeted her.

She whispered, “My Sultan, you honor me with your attention.”

Nasr shook his head. “I could not have achieved this moment without you, who always believed this day would come. By your wisdom, the son of a slave is master of this land.”

His features blanched and his upper lip trembled. “I miss
Ummi
. I wish she were here.”

When his voice wavered, she touched his chest, just above his heart. Shocked dismay erupted from the courtiers at her informality, but Nasr’s hand closed over her own and pressed hers to him.

She smiled at him, despite her watery eyes. “Nur al-Sabah is here, my Sultan, always within your heart. She lives on in you.”

***

In the afternoon, Fatima and the Sultan ambled arm in arm through the gardens just outside his palace. His workers repaired the older buildings.

She loosened her hold on him and stared at the red brick façade behind them. “You’ll make no changes to the old palace, although Muhammad’s presence tainted it?”

Nasr replied, “It was Father’s palace before Muhammad claimed it. It was our home when we were both children.”

He offered her his arm again and they resumed their promenade. Fatima turned again and regarded the guards who trailed at a distance.

“The Galicians proved loyal.”

“Each day, I thank you for them. There were times I feared for my life, a prisoner in all, but name within Muhammad’s domain. His men shadowed my movements. It is miraculous that we were able to plan as we did. When you stopped communicating years ago, I feared the worst. Until your husband came to see me.”

She halted. “Faraj visited with you?”

“Yes, after Prince Ismail’s betrothal. He warned me you would have no more to do with my dealings. I understood then why the messages had ceased. It was too late to turn from our plans. My friends in the council had the support of the military.”

He sighed and patted her hand. “In the last year, Muhammad became even more unstable, cutting off heads at a whim. At midnight, lights from the palace were so brilliant everyone could see them from the surrounding areas. He rarely slept, roaming the complex at odd hours. When he did retire, terrible screams echoed from his chamber.”

“Did a physician examine him?”

“He would allow none near him. He remained convinced someone was trying to poison him.”

“Was there truth in this?”

When Nasr said nothing, she nodded. “It is also likely the demons of his past pursued him. Muhammad is evil, but he shares our blood. I have not thought of him as my brother in a long time, though we have the same mother. Where is he now?”

“At
al-Quasaba
. My jailor says he keeps the citadel guards awake at night with his cries.”

“By your consent, I would like to see him.”

Nasr frowned. “I warn you not to trust him, even in shackles. He remains chained in his cell for good reasons.”

“I thank you for the advice. I must see him. I must have answers from him.”

“I’m not certain what he could tell you, but if you wish to visit him, I shall allow it. You may not enter his cell, for any reason. I forbid it.”

“I understand.”

“Do not visit him today, for this is a day of celebration.”

“Yes, it is. Thank you, my Sultan.”

The next morning, two of Nasr’s Galicians escorted Fatima into the basement of the watchtower, with a second prison carved into its walls. They awaited her at street level.

The descent into the heat and fetid smells beneath
al-Quasaba
left Fatima dizzy. The jailor carried a torch before him. When he halted, her eyes grew accustomed to her surroundings. She ignored the groans coming from adjoining cells and the squeaks and scurrying of furry rodents across the muddied floor. She followed the spindly man down a dank corridor. Beneath her veil, curls clung to her temples and neck. The jailor stopped at the last cell and shone the torchlight into it.

Fatima peered past the iron bars at the outline of a cadaverous shape, crouched on the floor, fettered to a rusting chain. The remnants of stale urine and vomit assailed her.

She scowled at the jailor. “Is this how you treat a member of the royal family?”

He avoided her persistent stare. “I bring him food daily and he spews it at me. He gouged out the eyes of one guard and bit off the finger of another last week. No one goes near him, my Sultana.”

Disgusted, she tugged her black veil over her nose. “Muhammad?”

The jailor warned, “He speaks to no one.”

“He shall speak with me! Muhammad, answer me. It’s Fatima.”

The wretched man scuttled backward and looked around the room with murky eyes, as if uncertain of what he heard.

She rattled the bars. “I’m here. Muhammad, look at me.”

He shook his head wildly, matted dark hair falling over his eyes. She stared at the jailor again. He lowered his gaze.

“Open this cage.”

The jailor drew back from her. The torchlight illuminated the stark etched on his face. “I dare not!”

“Nevertheless, you shall do as I say.”

“The Sultan would have my head if your brother escaped!”

“I’ll have your throat if you do not do as I have asked.”

She withdrew her father’s
khanjar
from a sheath buckled beneath the sleeve of her robe. The blade’s edge gleamed. Nasr would not have approved of her disobedience, but the claims of justice for her father guided her now.

The jailor clutched his neck. “You would not do it. You’re a woman!”

“Foremost, I am a determined one, foremost. I shall have my way. Now, open the door.”

The key rattled in the lock and the door creaked. The jailor stepped back a few paces.

Fatima stood at the threshold of the cage. She studied the silent form of the grubby figure on the floor. Thoughts crowded her mind. She struggled with what she must say. She had waited too long for this moment to lose courage now. Muhammad could not defeat her, not in her triumph.

“You were my cherished brother. In my first memory, I was five years old and you were six. We were playing in the nursery. The Princess Aisha passed by, but she took no notice of us in her usual fashion. I followed her. You told me to come back. At the bottom of the stairs, I lost my footing. The Princess did not look behind her to see whether I had hurt myself. You helped me stand and you kissed my knee. You said, ‘Don’t cry, little sister, I’m here. I’ll always be here for you.’ I never thought I would shed so many tears, all because of you.”

She moved two paces into the cell and halted a short distance from Muhammad.

“I loved you once, more than any other of our siblings, with an affection that rivaled my devotion to our father. For years, you manipulated him. You drugged him with infusions of hashish and corn cockle seed. You made him go mad. Later, you poisoned him with honey cakes. He died in the knowledge that his heir had betrayed and murdered him. Our brother Faraj suspected your treachery. You forced him to take his life and that of his children.

“You sent my father’s wife from her loving home into exile. His beloved concubine killed herself to avoid the shameful fate you meted out for her. You raped a slave, simply because she resembled me. She committed suicide, rather than bear your cruel touch again. You poisoned a girl who wanted nothing more than to bear your children and killed two other innocent slaves to hide your misdeeds. You have tortured and slain countless others at whim. You are a liar and usurper, a rapist and a murderer. Yet, your blood is my blood. Why did you hurt the ones who loved you? Why did you destroy the lives of those who would have served you loyally?”

Muhammad rocked back and forth. His eyes bulged. They scoured the room and looked everywhere, except at her.

She sprang at him. Her nails dug into his sunken cheek and drooping chin. He did not cry out. She was not sure he felt anything now, even pain.

“You do not answer, but I know your crimes shall haunt you until the end of your days. Your soul shall never know peace. Mine shall, because you are here. You must live with the nightmares of all you have done. You’ll stay in this dank hole forever, where you can never harm another person.”

She wiped the grime from his face on her mantle and vowed to burn her clothes, upon her return to the palace.

“You took everything and everyone that ever mattered away from me. Almost. I won’t let you destroy my spirit, as you have done to your own. It is too late for you to atone for your sins. I pray it is not too late for me.”

 She shook her head in dismay at him and turned away.

“You never loved me.”

His voice quavered, whether hoarse with age or for some other reason, she could not tell.

She looked over her shoulder. “What did you just say?”

Muhammad stared at his empty palms, his hands shackled at the wrists. “You never cared about me. I was the firstborn. That didn’t matter. Everyone loved her, even our father did. He wished she could have been his son, instead of me. She had it all, everything I wanted. A happy home, filled with children and love. Even from you, she had love.”

“Who are you talking to, Muhammad?”

“I used to cry at night while she and my other sisters slept. I wondered what was wrong with me. Why couldn’t you love me? Why did you look on your own son as a stranger? I never learned to love. You never taught me.”

Tears left muddied tracks in dirt streaks across his cheeks.

She swallowed against the lump in her throat. In her youth, she had envied the bright boy of her childhood memories, who would be Sultan one day. His gender and birth order had guaranteed him every liberty, unlike her. She had done her duty, married as her father and grandfather determined. He always had the freedom she had wanted, yet he envied her.

From her childhood, she remembered the bitterness Muhammad had felt toward the Princess Aisha. How he had reviled Fatima after her passing. A lifetime of their mother’s rejection had led him on the path of insanity and vengeance. Would his descent into madness claim her life?

Somehow, in the last few years, she had lost sight of her mother’s warnings and her sacrifice. She had become the sort of wife her mother had been to her father, one who only showed her hatred and intolerance. Her children were bereft of their mother’s love. In her burning desire for revenge, she had abandoned her duty to them, but never again. They would never wonder at her devotion and caring for them. Someday, Faraj would remember her love for him, too.

Muhammad had let their mother’s abandonment destroy him. He had lashed out at everyone around him and killed those who loved him. She had to forsake his path, or she would end her days alone, like him.

She bent and cupped his cheek, gently this time. “I pity you, brother. Aisha may not have shown us love, but we learned of it from Father. Still, you betrayed him. He is dead because of you. You have destroyed the one person who loved you always, until the end of his days. Now, you have to live with the guilt for the rest of your life.”

He made no response. She shook her head and turned from him forever.

His hand caught her ankle and jerked her back into the cell. She screamed at the suddenness of his actions. The jailor came inside and beat Muhammad’s hand with the end of the torch. Flames licked dangerously close to the hem of Fatima’s skirts. Her brother was strong and would not let go, no matter how she twisted in his resolute hold.

“
Ummi
, you won’t leave me. You won’t leave me again! I won’t let you.”

She slashed at his fingers with the dagger. She almost severed his thumb. Blood spurted in an arc from the wound. Muhammad cradled his injured hand and cried.