As he expected, Samara and Hayfa burst into tears, while Baraka’s pout grew defiant. He dismissed the others and tugged Baraka to the bed. He banished her displeasure with kisses along her throat and shoulders until she surrendered.
Later, he rolled on his stomach, replete in the enjoyment of the concubine’s charms. Baraka traced a nail across his shoulder. “I can stay if you like, master.”
“You’ll leave now. You know the custom.”
He waited for her sigh before she stood and wrapped her alabaster body in silk. When none of this happened, he dragged the coverlet from her. “Go, Baraka.”
Her arm snaked around his shoulder, fingers at the nape. “Why do you send me away? I only want to comfort you, master.”
“And you have. Now you may go.”
She brushed a pert nipple against him and kissed his ear, nibbling on the lobe. Her other hand threaded wispy curls of hair on his belly and drifted downward. “Your body cannot say no to Baraka.”
He pushed her back among the pillows. Her throaty laughter, her scent and her desire enthralled him. She wound her limbs around him and tugged his face to hers. She proved more intoxicating than her perfumes.
Much later, he collapsed on her body, but her legs tightened around his waist. Loosening her possessive hold, he rolled on his side. “Leave off, Baraka.”
She stroked a curved nail across his back. “Rest, master, for you have pleasured me well. You need to regain your strength. I shall stay with you until you do.”
She was impudent, but he was too tired to chastise her. Eyelids heavy, his head sank on the pillow. Before sleep claimed him, he managed a weak protest. “I don’t want you here.”
“Yes, master, you’ll always want Baraka.”
He closed his eyes, as the powerful lure of sleep claimed him.
The dreams came unbidden, as they always did. Violent, vivid images ripped from the depths of his buried past, a child’s worst nightmare.
His father slumped over the low dining table. Viscous blood pooled under his face, stained the golden silk tablecloth and ran red trails to the cedar floor. Mother cradled the body in her arms. His father’s head lolled against her shoulder and fell backwards. The gaping gash at his neck seeped blood from a red, jagged line torn ear to ear.
Mother closed his sightless, gray eyes and kissed the dark brown hair, matted against his skull. Then she removed his bloodless khanjar, the jeweled hilt of the dagger gleaming in the torchlight. She plunged the weapon into her chest. Only a brief spasm betrayed her pain. She never screamed, no – his cries were the ones to fill the room, as they did now.
Shuddering, bathed in perspiration, Faraj opened his eyes. Despite his fears about Baraka or anyone else seeing him in such a vulnerable state, the jarya snored beside him. Pale moonlight filtered through the lattice windows. It traipsed across the thick woven rugs covering the olive wood floor. The light illuminated the recesses of a carved niche where a fountain and basin held water for morning ablutions.
Cloying, fragrant, jasmine permeated the thick, curled locks of the woman who lay beside him. Her palearm encircled his chest. Even now, with her rounded, full breast pressed against him andher leg draped possessively over his, her allurements and charms were a temptation. He wanted to wake her and take his pleasure upon her willing body. As if in doing so, he might chase the nightmares away forever.
Disgusted, he shrugged off her arm before extracting himself from her embrace. Naked, he stood at the window and peered through the lattice to the south, in the direction of the place he had once called home. His head bowed, he whispered into the darkness, “Father, protect me. Mother, forgive me.”
Chapter 3
The Prophecy
Princess Fatima
Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Muharram 664 AH (Granada, Andalusia: October AD 1265)
In silence, Fatima followed Aisha. They crossed a darkened hallway with shuttered windows near the ceiling. Fatima glanced at the man who fell into step beside her.
He said, “Princess, I am your uncle Abdallah, brother of Aisha.”
She eyed him, from the collar of his jubba, a wave of azure silk, to its hem skirting the floor. She was no longer leery of the scars on his cheeks. “Why haven’t I seen you in Gharnatah before?”
He halted and showed even, white teeth in a smile. “Your mother was just as direct in our childhood.”
She waited for an answer.
He replied, “I visited several years ago, in the days after your birth. I held you and proclaimed you were a child of my sister’s spirit. You remind me of her.”
“I look like my father.”
“You resemble him, but you have your mother’s dignity and strength.” At her puzzled frown, he continued. “When you are older, you shall understand my meaning.”
When he walked on, she followed him. “You never came back to Gharnatah after that visit?”
He stopped again and rubbed the back of his neck, looking away from her steady gaze. “It was…difficult, at times, to see you and Aisha. I had given up all hope, until today.”
The hesitation in his voice told her that he hated the long absence from his sister, but she did not know who or what could have kept him away. A doubt nagged at her. Had her father done it? Had he kept Aisha locked away from her family, like a prisoner?
She shook her head and asked, “Is this your house?”
“The only one I own in the foothills of Gharnatah.” He looked around as though seeing something in the shadows along the alabaster corridor. “I shall miss it.”
She sensed some hidden meaning behind his answer, but she struggled with the understanding of so much already. Besides, the palace servants had always taught her that children never asked adults to explain themselves. Children had a duty to follow orders.
Up ahead, a dark-skinned servant approached Aisha, bending at the waist. A rounded belly jutted under her tunic. When she straightened, her veil slipped back, revealing dark hair cropped close to her skull. Fatima stared, recognizing something familiar in her rounded features. The servant spoke in whispers with Aisha, who turned back to Fatima and Abdallah.
“She wishes to see us alone, brother, before speaking with Fatima. Please arrange for my daughter to have something to eat. We don’t have much time.”
Abdallah waved the servant forward. “Ulayyah, have the cook prepare the morning meal for the child.”
Aisha approached. “Fatima, return to the room.”
“But I don’t want to be there alone.”
Aisha patted her head. “Nothing and no one can harm you here. I promise.”
“How long must I wait?”
“For as long as it takes. Now please, do as I say.”
Fatima spun away in a huff and dragged her feet across the marble, looking over her shoulder at almost every step. Abdallah followed and closed the door on her last glimpse of her mother in the hallway. She sat down on the stool, her chin in her hand and waited.
The scent of freshly baked bread alerted her even before the door latch clicked. The same dark-skinned slave entered and padded across the floor, her bare feet hardly making a sound. She sank to her knees and lay flat on the ground, her forehead touching the marble.
“My princess, I am the slave Ulayyah. I serve the Ashqilula.” Her voice quivered.
Fatima frowned at her. Only the Sultan deserved such a respectful bow. She did not expect it from a servant among the Ashqilula.
As the slave moved to a sitting position, her legs bent beneath her, two other women entered carrying a platter of flatbread, boiled eggs, cheese, olives, grapes and pomegranates, with a pitcher of water. They set the food and drink on the windowsill and left.
“May I serve you, princess?” Ulayyah asked, though she did not wait for an answer. She reached for the platter.
“I cannot eat all of that!” Fatima exclaimed. “Just the eggs and flatbread, please.”
Ulayyah held the platter while Fatima chose the food she wanted. The flatbread was
warm and thin, but not dry like the cooks in her father’s kitchen made it. After eating it and the eggs, she plucked a few grapes from the stem.
She said, “You look like my old governess Halah.”
The slave replied, “I am her younger sister, my princess.”
Fatima remembered her governess had spoken of a sister who served the Ashqilula, one who had left Gharnatah years ago.
“Princess Fatima, I was the servant of the Sultan’s daughter, the Sultana Mu’mina, until her death. Then I was sold to the lady Saliha.”
“Who is that?”
“My lord Abdallah’s mother.”
“Then, she must be my grandmother.” Fatima wondered why Aisha had brought her to meet her grandmother now. She had never thought of whether Aisha had any family. In truth, she had never wondered anything about Aisha’s life before her marriage to Fatima’s father.
Her hand fell from the platter and she twisted away from the slave, peering out through the lattice.
Despite the gloom of nighttime, she made out swaying tree branches lining both sides of an empty courtyard. The city was silent, except for the occasional hooting from an owl in the trees. The smell of dew-soaked grass and a flower garden, perhaps below the window, reached her nostrils. She inhaled with a sigh and leaned forward, her forehead pressed against the wooden screen. She could not tell where the heavens touched the earth on a night as black as kohl, except for when glimmering beams of light beckoned from a distance.
“Ulayyah, where are we?”
“In the foothills of Gharnatah, my princess.”
“Am I close to the Sultan’s palace? How far is it from here?”
“I’m not supposed to tell you that.”
She jerked back toward the slave. “Who said so?”
Ulayyah’s shoulders sagged and she hung her head. “My lord Abdallah. Forgive me, princess. I know you have been brought here against your will.”
Fatima’s jaw clenched. She swung toward the window and stared out into the darkness again, focused on the flickering lights.
“Would you like some more of the fruit, princess? You have eaten so little. It would displease the lady Aisha if she knew.”
Fatima ignored the slave at her feet. Angry tears welled in her eyes, but she swiped them away impatiently. Would she ever see her father, brother, or sisters again? If Aisha had her way, it might be a long time before that happened, or perhaps never. Aisha had not explained where she intended to go after leaving Gharnatah. Was she truly doing this for her daughter’s protection? Could Fatima’s father have been right in warning her never to believe the princess? Her gaze clouded with more unshed tears. Whom should she trust – the father who had always adored and sheltered her, or the mother whose love she had long desired?
Just the evening before, everything had been different, as the household slaves prepared her for the wedding. Fatima’s governess had brought her to the hammam where four female attendants awaited them. They undressed Fatima, while she studied a frieze of glazed tiles, in hues of yellow, blue, red, green and black.
She had bathed and relaxed in the water. The attendants scraped her hands and feet with pumice stones. They toweled her dry and massaged her skin with rose oil and myrrh. They dried her hair with silk cloths perfumed with ambergris. Her governess dressed her in a qamis, a thin cotton shirt. Even now, she shivered in the cool room at the memory of the nearly transparent material against her bare skin.
She looked down at her hands, still painted with henna. Like all Andalusi brides, she had undergone the rituals of al-Laylat al-henna. She remembered the heady fragrance of aloe wood, as her governess led her from the hammam to the garden where the women of the Sultan’s household had gathered. Only Aisha remained absent, but then, Fatima had not expected her to be there. One of her grandfather’s favorite concubines, his kadin Lateefah had painted her fingers and palms, even the soles of her feet.
Fatima traced the fine lines and swirls, with which the tip of the thin brush had colored her skin. When the henna application had dried, Lateefah bound her hands in white cotton. Fatima’s governess returned her to her chamber but she hardly slept that night. A woman’s voice rose above the rhythmic sounds of zaggats, clanking, finger cymbals made of brass and bowl-shaped, wooden kāsatān. The noise of the festivities drifted through the lattice windows of the harem until the coming of the first prayer, Salat al-Fajr.
The governess had returned in the morning with the slaves who brought her wedding garments, a palette of white, silver and lavender colors. Over another white cotton undershirt and ankle-length trousers, the slaves dressed Fatima in her lavender silk jubba, over which they drew another robe of white, brocaded cloth, the khil’a. Ermine trimmed the neckline of the garment. The slaves had sewn embroidered tiraz bands in silver silk around the sleeves.
The jewels were even more beautiful than the clothes. Heavy silver anklets, rings inlaid with pearls, and multiple strands of amethyst bracelets had weighed down her limbs. Of all those ornaments, she kept only the khamsa, a charm in the shape of an upturned palm, known also as the Hand of Fatima.
Now, she reached beneath her tunic and fingered the silver necklace looped through the charm. Married women wore the khamsa for blessings of patience, wealth and faithfulness from their husbands. She gripped the khamsa, struggling against a desperate need to return to her family and let them know she was safe. She needed no charm for good fortune, only a way to escape. Then, her hold on the charm loosened and faltered. If she returned to her father’s palace, she would be choosing everyone over Aisha, who promised protection and, more importantly, the mother’s love she had never felt.
“My princess, I beg your favor, please. Does my sister still live? Please tell me. I have not seen her for over twenty years.”
Fatima’s gaze returned to the slave. She had almost forgotten Ulayyah remained at her side.
“Halah takes care of us, my brother and sisters and me. If she knew where I was, she would want you to help me go back to my father.”
Ulayyah set the platter on her lap, with her head and shoulders bowed. Her lower lip trembled. “I cannot do it, princess. Please do not ask me.”
“Then, if you can’t help me, leave me alone!” Fatima hid her sobs behind her hands.
Soon, Abdallah returned and led Fatima from the room to another part of the house. Servants stood on either side of a shuttered olive wood door. It opened onto a dimly lit room with windows covered in lattice and torches in iron scones flickering near the low ceiling. Rugs covered the floor and colored silken cushions lined the base of the walls.
At the heart of the chamber, a woman reclined on a black pallet, her head lolling on red and silver striped pillows. Aisha knelt beside her, hands clasped. The woman on the pallet waved her off and crooked a finger toward Fatima, who shuffled across the floor.
For the first time, she gazed upon the face of her maternal grandmother. Dark brown hair curled about the woman’s timeworn countenance. Her eyes, like a cat’s own, resembled Fatima’s, though there were crinkles in the leathery flesh surrounding them. She was small and slim. Her red and black robe, bracelets and rings shimmered with gemstones.
“Your bloodlines bear out too much, child, for me to call you kin. You belong to the Nasrids, much to my regret. I would speak with you alone, princess of Gharnatah.”
Fatima glanced at Aisha, who nodded toward her before retreating to the doorway. Soon, Fatima stood alone with her grandmother.
At a gesture from her, Fatima sat and handed her a water pipe on a silver gilt tray.
The woman inhaled and set it aside. “I am Saliha, daughter of Abu Abdallah Muhammad ibn Yusuf, the last rightful Hud lord of Ishbiliya.”
Fatima frowned. “I never knew the Hud married among the Ashqilula clan.”
The Hud had been her grandfather’s enemies until he helped the Christian kings destroy them. Yet, he had chosen Aisha as a bride for his eldest son. Fatima drew back, realizing that she bore the blood of her family�
��s enemies through her mother.
“I never said I married by choice, girl. Your grandfather raided Ishbiliya and forced me to marry an Ashqilula chieftain against my will. Such blood ties would not have existed in the days of my father. Your grandfather murdered my father at the gates of al-Mariyah.”
Fatima snapped, “It’s not true. That’s not what my father told me!”
“Then, he is a liar who shall burn in hell-fire, just like his accursed father.”
“Don’t say that. You don’t know anything. Father said my grandfather rose against the Hud because they were cruel masters of al-Andalus. That is why Grandfather helped the Christians conquer Ishbiliya.”
The woman closed her eyes. “One day, you shall have to learn about your family. Your grandfather is not the benevolent savior of al-Andalus. Your innocence and youth blind you to the truth about him now, but one day, you shall be a woman and the truth shall become clearer in your mind. Your grandfather has betrayed his brothers of the Faith, because he is greedy and corrupt.”
Fatima stared at her in silence, although her heart pitched violently inside. How could this woman say such things about her family? It could not be true. At night, her father often lulled her brother and sisters to sleep with stories of his father’s raids along the Christian frontier and tales of how he protected the people of Gharnatah from Christian and Muslim enemies. Her father would never lie to her, it was impossible.
Fatima muttered, “I don’t believe you.”
The woman opened her eyes and returned her intent stare. “Believe what you must, child. It shall not comfort you. I have wept for my Ishbiliya, a once great and cultured city. Now, the faithful live in squalor in the Christian Sevilla. Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, calls to me, but even death cannot grant me comfort. Thoughts of how much my family has lost because of yours plague me. I would fight on and live, if only to see your family’s end.”
“Are you dying?”
“There is a canker growing in my breast. My useless physicians can do nothing. Each day the pain grows and I swallow more opium.”
Sultana: A Novel of Moorish Spain Page 4