Sultana (39 page)

“I shall not! High treason is a capital offense. Don’t you understand? I won’t lose you now, not after all we have suffered together.”

He brushed past her and held out his hands. “I’m ready.”

Even as the soldier chained his hands and feet, she clutched Faraj’s arm. “What are you doing? Why are you letting them do this?”

He said nothing, only shook his head and staggered as the guards led him away.

“Faraj? Faraj!”

Her screams died in sobs as Marzuq held her steady.

Fatima stood in the midst of the Sultan’s quarters less than an hour later. “Father, you can’t believe my husband is a murderer!”

He sat at his writing desk eyeing her, his gaze speculative.

“Fatima, I know you love him. I would have spared you this pain. You cannot deny he had the chance and, more importantly, a compelling reason to kill Abu Muhammad. Faraj has confessed all that he had been keeping secret about the Ashqilula’s role in the death of his father. He told me Abu Muhammad ordered my uncle Ismail’s death. Faraj has all but admitted to killing Abu Muhammad.”

“Abu Muhammad deserved to die. All the Ashqilula do! That doesn’t mean my husband killed him.”

Her heart and head warred. Faraj deserved the right of vengeance but they had talked about this and made alternative plans. Would he have moved without her? Would he have risked everything they could have accomplished together?

“Fatima, I believe Faraj has the right of revenge, but it must give way to the Sultan’s justice. No one may disobey the laws of the Sultanate, or the oaths I have made. I gave my sacred promise regarding the safety of the Ashqilula. Now, I have a dead Ashqilula governor, hanging by his bed linen in his jail cell with a stab wound to his heart. The jailer says your husband was the only person who requested to see him. Abu Muhammad was alive until late last night. I can only assume your husband returned to finish the work he had started in Malaka. Did you know Faraj tried to kill Abu Muhammad? Three of my guards stopped him. Are you aware of that?”

“I don’t care what happened in Malaka. Abu Muhammad could have hung himself.”

“Did he stab himself too?”

“Father, Faraj would never disobey you!”

“Do I know that? It seems I do not know him at all, when he has kept secrets about the Ashqilula for years. I notice you showed no surprise at hearing his claims. That means he has told you beforehand. When did you both become so comfortable keeping secrets from me?”

She gasped, incredulous at the doubt in his eyes. “He didn’t do it. I know him. He would not risk our futures.”

Her father sighed. “Show me the proof that Faraj is innocent, Fatima and he shall live. Otherwise, he dies by the executioner’s blade. I am sorrier than I can say. I love Faraj, too. He is my cousin, raised in my father’s household. I do not want to see him die. Yet, he can no more escape his fate than I can deny my duty. I am Sultan. I can’t allow anyone to defy me, even among my own family.”

Later, Fatima sat on the steps leading down into her garden, head buried in her hands. Thoughts roiled inside her mind. He could not have done it. Faraj would never defy the Sultan. He knew the consequences. She had warned him. He would not risk his life, their lives together, for vengeance’s sake.

Ismail’s cries echoed from the house. Fatima swiped at her eyes, burning after a day spent in weeping. Amoda brought the baby out. “I think he misses the master.”

Fatima took her son and kissed his auburn hair, as he whimpered, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. Cuddling him close under his blanket, she whispered, “I miss him too.”

She spent the rest of the evening in terror, hardly eating. Ismail fussed and cried for her, even though he loved Amoda. Only his mother’s rocking soothed him. He fell asleep just before midnight in her arms, but she never slumbered.

Her heart ached with the desire to have her husband alive, safe and back in her arms again. Faraj’s fate weighed heavily on her. The council’s verdict the next morning would decide his future. Islamic law required witnesses before the Sultan could lay a charge of high treason. Anyone could testify on behalf of the accused, even a woman.
Sharia
law had a strict requirement that two women must testify, whereas one man’s testimony was enough to exonerate the accused.

She refused to let that requirement stop her from offering testimony on her husband’s behalf. He was her beloved, as much a part of her as the heart beating inside her chest. He could not die. His son would not be an orphan, or his wife, a widow.

After the first prayer hour, the
Diwan al-Insha
convened in the throne room and considered the charges against Faraj. Fatima struggled through the gathering crowd. The council did not usually allow courtiers into the chamber, but the news of Faraj’s arrest had spread in the royal
madina
and throughout Gharnatah. The
Diwan
also did not usually permit women to attend or interfere in the proceedings in public, unless they appeared as witnesses. After she persisted in her repeated requests for admission, the guards allowed her entry.  

“…We have ample witnesses who say this man was the last person to see the Ashqilula governor. He sought to kill him at Malaka!” Abu Omar, one among the Sultan’s ministers who had not hidden his resentment of Ibn Ali appointment as
Hajib
, now addressed the Sultan. “What more proof does justice demand? Prince Faraj has broken the Sultan’s oath and our laws. The penalty is death. He has forfeited his life.”

Bathed in the sunlight streaming through the lattice windows, Faraj knelt in the center, his head bowed. Manacles shackled his hands behind him. Fatima stifled a cry at the dirt and muck soiling his clothing, after only one day in a cell at
al-Quasaba
.

When Abu Omar finished speaking and the Sultan waved him off, Fatima approached. “May I be allowed to speak?”

Her voice wavered and echoed in the cavernous space. Faraj’s tortured gaze flew to her face. She sidestepped him and bowed. “Please, my Sultan?”

Her father rose from his chair with a grave expression. “Fatima, you should not be here.”

She sank on her knees at her husband’s side. Unshed tears stung her eyes. “I have no other place to go. I am his wife.” A few murmurs rose but she continued. “I beg for his life. He is a good man. He has served Gharnatah faithfully all his days. You know him, Father, and you know his nature. He could never have done this.”

Her father reached for her hand, pulling her up.

She refused, clasping her fingers in supplication. “My husband has honored you all the days of his life. He would never betray your sacred trust.”

“Fatima, don’t dishonor yourself by pleading for my life.” Faraj’s voice sounded wooden and hollow.

She shook her head. “You are my life. If you die, I shall be dead to the world, as well.”

His lower lip trembled. She touched a grimy mark on his cheek.

“The Sultana Fatima speaks the truth.” A familiar, shrill voice filled the council chamber. “Her husband couldn’t have killed the Ashqilula governor last night.”

Though heavy veils partially muffled her voice, Baraka spoke out clearly. “I know master. He is good, kind and loyal to those he loves. He could not have done this.”

Abu Omar barked, “Who is this woman?”

Fatima replied, “She is my husband’s concubine.”

Abu Omar stomped his clubfoot. “Bah! A concubine and a wife, they would say anything.”

Baraka continued, “I speak the truth. I know my master could not have done this. He was with me in my bed last night. He returned to the house two hours after sunset, after he had dined with the Sultan and his officers.”

Fatima gasped. Foolish jealousy ripped at her heart. So, that was why Faraj had taken so long to come to their bed? Why had he gone to Baraka, instead of waking her?

Her father beckoned the slave girl forward. “I can account for his presence in my chamber until such time. Was he with you all the hours after that?”

“He was, except when he went to the Sultana just before midnight. Master returned to his house and desired her. She was already abed. Then, he remembered me. For many years, master has remained faithful to his wife. He did not want her to know I had tempted him to my bed. It would seem a betrayal. I can’t keep silent and watch him die, even though the truth may hurt her.”

Another wave of jealousy overwhelmed Fatima. She could not help it. She wished Faraj had woken her instead of going to Baraka’s bed. Even so, she welcomed the news. It made the possibility that he had murdered Abu Muhammad in the night less certain.

Her father grasped her hand and helped her stand. He cupped her face in his. “Is this true, daughter, what this slave has said?”

She swallowed before answering. “Faraj came to my bed just before midnight. I awoke and asked him the hour.”

“Do you believe he had been with his slave before he came to you?”

She drew back. “How can you ask me that? What woman wants to admit her husband chose a slave over her?”

Her father nodded and turned away.

Abu Omar insisted, “We cannot accept the word of a slave, great Sultan.”

Muhammad II glared at him. “But we can accept the word of a Sultana, which is beyond contestation. Do you suggest we have the concubine detail her activities with my kinsman last night? Is that the proof you require? Do you want to see my daughter hurt further? Can’t you see how she feels about it already? It’s no wonder the slave hesitated to speak.”

“But they’re both women, my Sultan.”

“And
Sharia
law permits evidence to be brought by two women. Can we deny the circumstances of Abu Muhammad’s death remain unclear? Treason is a grievous offense and requires grave proofs. Shall I kill Prince Faraj without incontestable evidence of his guilt? I am the Lawgiver. The laws of the Sultanate bind me, as they govern all of Gharnatah’s citizens.”

The Sultan summoned his jailer, who stood in the recesses of the room.

“Release him,” he said with a gesture toward Faraj.

The jailer removed the manacles. Faraj rubbed his bruised wrists. When he stood, her father drew his sword.

Fatima gasped and stepped between them. “What are you doing, my Sultan?”

He gave her a wry smile. “This may be my last opportunity, my child, but I ask you to be quiet.”

She sidestepped Faraj. Her father raised his sword over her husband’s head. “Our enemies killed your father. The governorship, which should have gone to you, went to Abu Muhammad. He is gone now, but I can find no absolute proof that his death came at your hands. I release you. Today, I right a wrong done to you, one your family suffered for more than twenty years past. Therefore, rise and stand before me, the new governor of Malaka. Long may you and your heirs hold the city in the name of the Sultan of Gharnatah.”

When he stood, Faraj’s legs wobbled slightly. The Sultan sheathed his sword and embraced him.

Afterward, Fatima fell into step beside Faraj, as they left the council chamber together. When they emerged in the daylight, loud cheers erupted. Well-wishers thronged them, jostling Fatima aside as they cheered her husband.

She spied Baraka on her solitary walk. She called out twice. The concubine ignored her. Pressing through the crowd, she reached Baraka and grabbed her arm.

“Did Faraj come to your chamber last night and make love to you? I can forgive him anything, but I must know the truth.”

Baraka stopped and looked at where Faraj stood, swallowed up in the crowd.

“Do you have to ask, Sultana? Don’t you know how much he loves you, or how I envy you? You know the truth. I don’t have to speak of it.”

Fatima sighed and nodded. “I don’t understand. You hate him. Why did you lie, just to save him?”

Baraka’s emerald eyes swam with tears. “Why else does a woman lie? She would do anything if she loves someone, even if he doesn’t love her.”

The concubine fled, her loud sobs echoing across the courtyard.

Fatima did not know what to say.

She waited until mid-morning when Faraj finally cleared the crowd. Despite the onlookers, he tugged her veil aside and tipped her face up for a kiss. She returned his embrace, their arms enfolding each other.

When they drew apart, he sighed against her hair. “You saved my life.”

She shook her head. “Baraka did it with her lie about being with you.”

He hugged her close again. “She didn’t lie. I did go to her that night.”

She pulled away and peered up at his dark olive face, speechless.

He said, “Baraka met me at the door to our house. She helped me wash Abu Muhammad’s blood from my hands. She burned my bloodied clothes and attended me in the
hammam
. She flung my dagger into the river Hadarro. Your father allows Ibrahim to depart in exile, but I could not do the same for the one who killed my father. I could not risk that he might escape my justice in al-Maghrib el-Aska.

“Now, you know the truth. It is enough to damn me for a liar and a murderer. Most importantly, I have lied to you. If you can ever forgive me, I promise it shall be the first and last time I ever tell you such a falsehood again.”

She sighed. At last, he had avenged his losses. Although her father’s justice had robbed her of immediate recompense for her mother’s death, at least one among Ashqilula had already received a fitting end.

“Let us return home. Ismail slept poorly. He missed that song your father taught you, the one you sing to our son at night.”

She resumed walking ahead of him. He pulled her back, a lingering question in his eyes.

She cupped his cheek. “Don’t you know I shall always love you as you are?”

He kissed her palm. ‘I could want for no better ally but you, my beloved.”

Before the week concluded, Faraj and Fatima prepared to leave Gharnatah for his birthplace at Malaka. Most of her family and former retainers came to say farewell on that final morning. She hugged Shams ed-Duna, Nur al-Sabah and her remaining sisters and promised to write often. After exchanging goodbyes with her beloved family, she bowed before her father and kissed the hem of his silk
jubba
. He helped her rise and held her by the shoulders.