Sultana (25 page)

“You may put on your garment and sit beside me.”

“Yes, my Sultana.” Her voice was throaty, almost a cat’s purr. Not like Princess Aisha’s tone. She padded on slender feet across the floor, sat and folded her hands on her lap. Again, she met Fatima’s level stare.

“Where were you born, Ayesha?”

“In a town called Palermo, it is on the northwestern coast of an island called….”

“…Sicily. I know of it. Moors ruled your country until nearly two centuries ago. Niranjan said you are a nobleman’s daughter. Are you descended from the Franks?”

“Yes, my name is…it was Maria.”

Fatima nodded. The woman had accepted her lot in life. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I am to serve the Sultan of Gharnatah. He is my master now.”

“You shall dance for the Sultan tonight, Ayesha and entertain him with song if he wishes. I am sure you shall please him, so do not be nervous.” When she remained silent, Fatima inquired, “Are you nervous?”

“I heard you and the eunuch talking. You said there is a rival.”

“Do you fear her?”

The slave’s hazel eyes shone like amber. “No. She’s nothing to me.”

Later in the evening, Fatima attended her father’s banquet in his upper-level apartments. Some of her sisters stood with their father, while he introduced them to his new daughter and the
kadin
. Alimah took the golden-haired child in her arms. She and Azahra cooed at the squirming bundle. Their father looked on adoringly with his arm draped on his slave’s hip, holding her close to him.

Fatima cursed beneath her breath and approached.

When she bowed, her father beckoned her. “You look beautiful, my dear.”

“Thank you.” She fingered the gold brocade of her
jubba
.

The
kadin
smiled and curtsied. Fatima turned away, just as her grandfather’s queens and
kadin
arrived. Her brother Muhammad appeared in the company of the
jarya
Zuleika who, it seemed, was with child again, after suffering a miscarriage. Then, Fatima’s younger sisters, the Sultanas Tarub and Nadira came.

At a large table, the family dined together. Fatima sat next to Muhammad, who took his place at their father’s left. The
kadin
sat on his right.

Beneath the ivory and gold tablecloth, Fatima dug her nails into her palm. Since Princess Aisha’s death, she had occupied the place of honor beside her father. Now a slave displaced her. She ate with little appreciation for the cuisine, among them her favorite
‘tharid
with mint-flavored lamb. Noisy chatter swirled around her, while she kept her silence.

From time to time, the
kadin
looked down the table. Each time she did so, Fatima frowned in her direction. Then, another slave interrupted to take the newborn to her cradle.

Fatima muttered below her breath, “Ridiculous! One slave does the bidding of another.”

Muhammad coughed loudly. Their father patted his back. “Are you well, son?”

“Too much pepper on the lamb,” Muhammad murmured. He glanced sideways at her, the corners of his mouth crinkling.

She ignored him, certain he had overheard her remark, but she did not care what he or anyone else thought. The
kadin
’s influence was infuriating.

After the meal, the guests presented as many gifts, if not more, for the woman than her child. At the climax of the reception, the Sultan presented Nur al-Sabah with a necklace of finely cut stones; opals, jade and sapphires gleaming in gold.

Fatima turned away to the window behind her. Niranjan crossed the patio on the lower level. The Sultan had arranged for an evening’s entertainment with female musicians.

He signaled to them where they sat in a corner of the room. Then Ayesha appeared at the top of the steps. She wore a short black tunic, closely fitted to her torso, fastened in a low V-neck just above her waist. Her skirt comprised a thick silk waistband, slung low over her curvaceous hips, and sheer strips of red silk sewn to it. Her attire bared her midriff and the skirt revealed her shapely legs with every movement.

“What’s this, daughter?” Her father leaned forward, favoring Fatima with a bemused smile.

“She is my gift for you, honored father.” She looked past him to the
kadin
, who also smiled.

Ayesha slowly began a sensuous sway of her hips in rhythm to the music and captivated all the guests. Lust fired Muhammad’s candid gaze. At least, he had stopped staring at their father’s
kadin
.

Smiling in triumph, Fatima looked at her father, who whispered something in the
kadin
’s ear. She laughed and covered his hand with hers, before they turned their attention to the dance. Occasionally, he leaned and nuzzled her, or kissed her hand. She chuckled low, and always pointed to the dancer at the center of the room.

Fatima shook her head. He acted like a lovesick fool with a mere slave, according her the affection he should have reserved for a wife. In a pique of annoyance, Fatima missed the conclusion of Ayesha’s performance. Uproarious applause followed.

When the new slave bowed in the center of the room, Fatima stood. “My noble father, this is the slave, Ayesha. She is my gift to you, in celebration of the birth of your new daughter.”

“She is a most beautiful, wondrous gift, for which I thank you, my daughter.” He beckoned Ayesha forward. When she stood before the table, he said, “Beautiful dancing, you gave an excellent performance.”

“Thank you,” the slave replied, her eyes fixed on the floor.

He continued, “What gift would you have of me for your display tonight?”

Now, she raised her head slightly. “You have a gift, for me?”

“Such skill must always be rewarded. What do you desire most? Speak whatever is in your heart and within my power, I shall grant it. Surely, there must be something you want.”

She glanced at Fatima and then met his stare. “I only wish to serve you.”

Fatima turned away. The slave was a fool! Her answer was too insincere and well-crafted to please the Sultan. She could have had anything she desired, perhaps even her freedom. Fatima had seen enough of her father’s behavior with women to know that the concubines who seemed too acquiescent or clinging never held his attention. He desired someone with his wife’s spiritedness. Had he found that with the
kadin
?

At the conclusion of the festivities, Fatima waited to say goodnight to the Sultan. Though the
kadin
hovered nearby, she ignored her.

Her father clutched her hands. “I wish you to know I truly did enjoy your gift, but the girl shall only languish unattended in my harem. I have no desire to see her talents wasted there. Before your brother retired left, I told him that he might have Ayesha. I pray you are not too disappointed?”

Fatima whispered, “You are Sultan, Father.”

She bowed at his side and swept past the
kadin
, who curtsied and murmured her farewell. Fatima’s heart raged inside her but she could not deny the truth. The
kadin
had won.

Chapter 19

 An Uneasy Alliance

Prince Faraj

Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Muharram - Rajab 673 AH (Granada, Andalusia: July AD 1274 - January AD 1275)

Five months after Faraj had presented the Sultan’s request for an alliance with the Marinids, the Marinid ruler sent a reply to his counterpart.

Summoned to the royal chamber, Faraj read the missive and looked at his master in disbelief. The Marinid Sultan had promised to send his son Prince Abu Zayyan, who he acclaimed one of their greatest commanders, to campaign against the Castillans.

“Abu Zayyan rides in command of five thousand Marinid cavalry. You may anticipate his arrival soon. I offer my esteemed son as a husband for your honorable sister, the widowed Sultana Maryam. In addition, I further secure this alliance by the offer of my own daughter, the princess Shams ed-Duna, as a bride for you. All this shall occur if you, the appointed of God, hold to your pledge to cede the ports of Tarif and al-Jazirah al-Khadra, as well as Jabal Tarik….
’ He expects us to give him Jabal Tarik too?”

At the Sultan’s nod, Faraj growled, “That was not a part of our original bargain! He asks us to cede the only ports the Ashqilula do not control, to embroil ourselves in
jihad
against Castilla-Leon and we are to acquiesce without complaint?”

“We always knew this would be an uneasy alliance.”

In disgust, Faraj tossed the letter on the low table between the Sultan and him. He snatched the water pipe at the center of the olive wood surface. Though neither man had ever used the pipe, they commiserated and drowned their concerns in a haze of smoke.

When Faraj passed the pipe to him, Muhammad II inhaled deeply. “Control of the ports serves Marinid interests and allows them a foothold for entry into the peninsula. That is why I made the offer, even knowing the risk that I might lose cities almost as valuable as Malaka. There can be no debate among my ministers. We must hold to the bargain. Castillan dogs nip at our heels and continue the border skirmishes unchecked. This cannot be entirely without the knowledge or sanction of King Alfonso.”

“Have you told the Sultana Maryam of the offer of marriage?”

“Yes, unfortunately, I was dining with her and my brothers last night when the messenger arrived. Her reaction was strange. She refused to leave Gharnatah but she’ll do as I say.”

“And you shall tell your family you are to re-marry soon?”

“I shall speak with my children, after I have met with the
Diwan
. I want to tell the girls, but I must reassure my
kadin
first. No royal wife shall ever take her place in my heart. Perhaps after I am wed, she might consent…but that is for another time.”

Faraj did not wonder at what the Sultan might have said. He worried only for Fatima who remained fiercely loyal to her mother’s memory.

For nearly six months afterward, the court awaited the arrival of the Marinid Prince Abu Zayyan. When he arrived, just before winter approached, the Sultan met him at the port of al-Jazirah al-Khadra, now under Marinid control and brought him northwestward to the border. From there, the army of the Maghribi prince carried out devastating raids against the Christian populations, killing as many as they enslaved.

Faraj remained in Gharnatah, where the court received weekly dispatches concerning each success. The marketplaces of Gharnatah and Fés el-Bali were soon flooded with human booty bound for distant Islamic lands, slaves who would not see their homes again.

In the midst of the conflict, Prince Abu Zayyan and Muhammad II withdrew from their encampment and returned to Gharnatah. For nearly a month since the Prince’s arrival, the populace had celebrated the impending nuptials of the Sultana Maryam.

In a brief ceremony, the Sultan officiated while the
Shaykh al-Ghuzat
Umar and Faraj witnessed all requisite documents. The tall, burly prince of the Marinids and the petite princess of the Nasrids must have thought well of each other, for when he returned to the frontier one week afterward, she accompanied him.

Nearly six weeks later, Muhammad II summoned Faraj to the throne room. The Sultan stood alone in its recesses, leaning against a stucco wall carved with a hunting motif. Faraj closed the door behind him.  Dim light from dulled lanterns gave the chamber a haunting, gloomy effect.

Grim-faced, Muhammad II held up a weathered parchment in his hand, the ink glowing blood red against the pages.

Faraj swallowed loudly, certain of the contents of the letter even before the Sultan spoke.

“The Castillans have declared war against Gharnatah and its southern neighbor. King Alfonso’s army numbers in the thousands. We shall meet them with the combined Gharnati and Maghribi forces at the outskirts of Istija, the domain of the Castillan King’s advisor, Doñ Nuño.”

On the eve of the conflict with Castilla-Leon, Faraj exchanged letters with the Marinid court minister Ibn Yala in Fés el-Bali, renewing Gharnatah’s pledges. The Marinids welcomed the news. Within two weeks, Faraj received confirmed sightings of their ships ready to sail from the ports at Sebta and Chella.

He went to the Sultan with the news. A bitter chill preceded his entry into the throne room. Muhammad II sat with Fatima at his feet.

“Then you’ll let me accompany the court to the frontier? I cannot stay here, Father. Worry shall kill me if I don’t know how you and Faraj fare.”

“Daily dispatches shall not suffice?”

“He’s my husband. You are my father. Please, don’t ask me to remain behind.”

“You’ve harassed me for weeks about this. Very well, I permit it.”

She clutched his hand and kissed it.

 Faraj stood in awe at the doorway, hardly comprehending what he had overheard.

“Fatima, I forbid it!” He crossed the throne room in quick strides. “In the past, I have indulged your whims and fancies, but I cannot accept your willfulness now.”

She rose and turned to him. “Faraj, you cannot forbid me from going with you, when the Sultan has given his consent. His authority supplants even the will of my husband.”

“It must be very convenient for you that your father is master of Gharnatah. As usual, you use your position as his daughter to defy me. I shall tolerate it no longer!”

“It is only you who sees my action as defiance! I care not how you bluster and rage. You can’t keep me from going with you to Istija.”

The Sultan sat silent between them, his chin on his hand.

A muscle twitched along Faraj’s jaw line. “Fatima, by the Prophet’s beard, I wish you would see reason! A battlefield is no place for a woman, it has never been.”

“Do not lecture me on a woman’s place!” Fury strained her voice. Her angular features flushed with indignation. “If a battlefield is no place for a woman, why then did Ayesha, beloved of the Prophet, gird herself for battle against her husband’s enemies? I am not asking to fight at your side. I won’t remain here in Gharnatah, awaiting news of the outcome.”