The trio smiled invitingly, snaking toward him. Yet, even as Baraka nibbled the curve of his ear and pressed the softness of her pale breast to him, and Hayfa and Samara’s hands undid his garments, he stilled the roving hands and stepped back.
“I…I should not have come. I shall return to my room, unaccompanied.”
Baraka frowned and slipped her supple limbs about him. The tips of her rouged nipples grazed his chest.
He removed her arms and shook his head. “I said, not now, Baraka.”
On the following day, the Sultan summoned him. Tortured by rampant dreams and irritable for lack of restful sleep, he performed the minor ablution before leaving his house. He joined his uncle, just as the Sultan’s servants set the morning meal of dry flatbread, cheese, sliced pomegranates and cinnamon-flavored tisane on the table.
“Ah, here’s my nephew at last. Sit with me.”
When he did, Faraj could not help noticing how the Sultan had aged. His eyes were still clear and alert, but other signs betrayed his years. Deep crinkles mired his eyes and lines furrowed his olive-skinned brow. His body had shriveled. The gnarled hands lifting the ceramic cup to his lips shook unsteadily.
“You study me as my wives do when they are concerned for my health,” the Sultan commented over the rim of the cup.
Faraj smiled and shook his head, but the Sultan continued, “You need not deny it and I wish you would not. It is not often I see such a candid expression on your face. You look pale. Are you unwell?”
“No, my noble uncle, I did not sleep well last night. The tisane is helping.”
“Eat and drink your fill.” The Sultan set down his cup. “You met with Fatima yesterday.”
Faraj drained his cup. Too many spies in Gharnatah watched his movements. “It was raining. We took shelter under the Gate of the Merchants.”
His almost rueful reply irritated him. He did not have to explain seeing his wife to anyone. She was his. A warm, lovely feeling settled in his stomach at the thought.
“Was your meeting altogether agreeable?”
Though he nodded, it was not entirely true. Afterward, Fatima had robbed him of his desire for his concubines. When he had seen the women, in truth, he thought only of her.
He shook his head. He could not allow her such influence over his mind. “She’s still very young.”
“Much too young to interest you, eh? Still, I am glad you spoke to her. It is my hope you and she shall become better acquainted. It is unfortunate then that despite my wish, I must now send you away from her, on a diplomatic mission.”
“Send me away, my Sultan?”
“Yes, I would have you be a part of the peace delegation that goes to al-Maghrib el-Aska next week. I seek the Marinids as Gharnatah’s allies again, so I send emissaries to Sultan Abu Yusuf Ya’qub. I expect you may be gone for a few months.”
“A few months?”
“You object to my request?”
“No, but you have said you wish me to become better acquainted with Fatima. I can hardly know her better, if I am gone.”
“What are a few months compared to the lifetime which you shall have with her? You both can bear the separation. It’s not as if you are in love with her, are you?”
Faraj stared down at his hands. A vision of her hair gliding through his fingertips assailed him. He shook his head and jerked his gaze to the Sultan, who watched him steadily.
“I shall go al-Maghrib el-Aska as you command, master.”
Faraj requested a meeting with Fatima the next day. He did not want to leave Gharnatah without an amicable parting. The prospect of his departure nagged him, but he refused to consider the source of his disquiet.
He arranged to meet her in the center of the extensive gardens separating the households of the Sultan and his heir. A package in hand, he walked toward the precincts of the Sultan’s palace. Admitted through the sentry gate, he crossed cobblestone streets bustling with courtiers seeking the relaxing comfort of the baths in the royal madina. He walked eastward, finally arriving at the outskirts of the garden park. Then he turned north, strolling along an avenue of juniper trees. When he rounded a row of hedges at the center of the garden, she appeared, with a group of slaves waiting on her attentively.
Silver bracelets jangled on her limbs, as she paced under an octagonal pavilion. A string of opals fell to her hips, paired with a shorter necklace of amethysts. Her long purple jubba and the lavender trousers underneath outlined a slender body, which showed promise of becoming womanly. She was no longer a child, but not quite a woman worthy of his interest. Surely not.
Her dignity and composure took him aback. In a clear and confident voice, she spoke to her slaves with an unquestionable level of authority. Spying him, she spoke with the pale man at her right. He turned to the slender dark-skinned woman seated beside him. They led the group of slaves away, all except for three others, one of whom Faraj recognized as the eunuch who always shadowed Fatima.
She sat on a large green cushion, while her eunuch bowed before him.
“Princess Fatima shall see you now, my prince.”
Two delicate brown-skinned slave girls bowed. They were identical in feature and dress and moved with precise synchronization. After addressing them, Fatima dismissed her slaves. She and Faraj were alone.
“Eid mubarak and the peace of God be with you, my prince.”
Clearing his throat, he answered, “Uh…yes, and to you, as well and the peace of God be with you and your house.”
She gestured toward a red cushion beside her. He set down his package at his feet. Her dark eyes remained on him. He shrank under her scrutiny. She stared unabashedly without emotion. Her inscrutable expression concealed her thoughts.
He reached for the parcel and placed it before her. “I brought a gift for the passing of Ramadan.”
Her delicate eyebrows arched. “Such things are usually for children. Is that how you think of me still, as a child?”
When he stammered, she laughed, surprising him. Something about her drew him near, but he closed his fingers into tight fists until they dug into his palms.
“I don’t want to seem ungrateful, my prince. Thank you for your consideration.”
“Yes, well…it’s appropriate for me to consider you. You’re my wife.”
She removed the cotton covering and revealed a golden gilded cage. Inside, a bird folded its black wings. Its small white head bobbed as golden-brown eyes darted everywhere.
He said, “The seller assured me this kite is gentle enough to eat from your hand. I named her Fatima in your honor.”
She looked at him askance. “Do I remind you of a bird now?” Before he could answer, she continued, “I had a bird like this, once. My brother shot a sparrow and I helped to heal her broken wing. She died a year ago. I never thought I would have my own for a pet.”
“Then, you like the gift?”
“I do, very much. I thank you for her.”
Her face flushed with happiness. Her mouth curved in a delectable smile. A surge of elation filled him at the thought of making her happy.
“I believe I could be content for the remainder of my life, if only you would always smile at me.”
When her eyes widened, he chided himself for his thoughtless slip of tongue. He was not some lovesick fool for her.
They sat in silence until he said, “I must leave Gharnatah in a few days, at the Sultan’s request. I do not know how long I shall be gone.”
“Grandfather relies on you. What do you do for him when you’re away?”
“I follow his commands and do what he wishes of me.”
She scowled. “If you do not wish to tell me, I won’t pry.”
Sighing, he said, “Your grandfather gives me different responsibilities. I have served as his interpreter and as a secretary, commissioned to write his letters of state.”
“Grandfather can write his own letters. Why does he ask you to do it?”
“You object to his choice of me as his emissa
ry and scribe?”
“I wonder why he chooses you for such missions.”
Often, he wondered the same. The men who usually undertook such duties were learned ministers, or preparing for administrative office. He had no interest in, or prospect of, either possibility. The sole responsibility he desired in life remained elusive, as in the days after his father’s death.
Chapter 12
The Raiders
Prince Faraj
Al-Andalus: Jumada al-Thani 671 AH (Andalusia: January AD 1273)
The rocky promontory at Jabal Tarik pierced the morning mist, welcoming Faraj home to al-Andalus after a ninemonth absence. He returned with the Sultan’s retinue of emissaries by trade ship from al-Maghrib el-Aska. They had left the Marinid ruler without assurances of an alliance. Just before departing the capital city at Fés el-Bali, Faraj wrote his master about the apparent failure of the negotiations.
Except for the crew, he stood on deck alone while the ship crossed the White Sea that Christians called the Mediterranean. Salt spray thickened the crisp, wintry wind. The boat rounded the western portion of Jabal Tarik and proceeded along the coastline of al-Andalus. They neared the port of disembarkation at Munakkab, one of the few seaside towns the Ashqilula family did not control.
On dry land again, Faraj commandeered one of several mounts the Sultan had sent from Gharnatah. A groom, who held the reins of his horse, proffered a rolled parchment bearing the Sultan’s seal. Faraj scanned it and mounted the gray stallion. He considered the instructions in the letter and sensed Gharnatah’s fortunes were once again about to change.
He parted fromthe others, who would return to Gharnatah directly, and circumventedthe hillside base of Munakkab’s citadel. At the outskirts of the city, bare mulberry trees covered the plains, evidence of the flourishing silk trade within the Sultanate. The sun glittered against the pale brick and rubble masonry of the city’s walls. In the citadel’s courtyard, a detachment of Moorish soldiers barred his entry. He dismounted, looking for the Crown Prince. Within minutes, the heir of Gharnatah emerged from the citadel and he was not alone. The Castillan commander Doñ Nuño Gonzalez de Lara strode beside him.
Faraj’s fists tightened at his side. Nearly six years after his secret encounter with the commander, his parents’ blood cried out for revenge against the Ashqilula traitors and all those who had helped them.
The Crown Princespoke in animated tones and smiled at his cohorts, before he approached.
Faraj bowed. “I came as your noble father ordered. I trust all goes well in Gharnatah,” He nodded to the Crown Prince’s companions standing a few feet away.
The heir favored him with a cautious smile. “We shall speak in a moment of Gharnatah’s affairs. Tell me instead of your sojourn in al-Maghrib el-Aska and of Sultan Abu Yusuf Ya’qub’s words.”
Glancing at the Lara men who waited and observed, Faraj shook his head. “The Marinids cannot commit to an alliance with Gharnatah now.”
The Crown Prince stroked his dark, pointed beard and nodded, before looking over his shoulder to where his guests awaited him. He smiled at them and then whispered, “It’s just as well. My father anticipated such a decision from our brothers of the Faith. His greatest disappointment may be that the Marinids cannot yet rid him of my sister Maryam. We shall know the Sultan’s true feelings soon enough, when we arrive at Gharnatah.”
“Do we depart soon?”
“Yes, in the company of those whom you see here. In the time that you were away in al-Maghrib el-Aska, the Lara men approached my noble father with entreaties, seeking another agreement. Against ardent objections, particularly from me, the Sultan does as he wills. Thus, we are to host the family of Lara and their companions for a time. My father has provided a large estate in al-Bayazin for his new allies.”
“I must ask, is this the wisest choice? Your father has committed the Sultanate to a course of action that has unforeseeable consequences for us all. How can we be assured the Castillan rebels shall remain steadfast, when in the past, they…?”
“We must trust in the Sultan to do what is right for Gharnatah’s future. Come, let us dine with these fools here and enjoy the entertainment their presence may provide.”
Weeks passed, in which the Sultanate of Gharnatah existed in a state of uncertainty. Minor skirmishes at the border with Castilla-Leon and near the territories under Ashqilula control resulted in a handful of injuries, but few deaths. In fearful whispers, courtiers predicted that either King Alfonso or the Ashqilula or both would besiege al-Qal’at al-Hamra. Yet, neither declared open warfare. Faraj did not know which situation the Sultan found more intolerant; the lack of a decisive victory over his enemies, or their pragmatic positions.
Then, Gharnatah’s soldiers and the Castillan rebels raided at border towns, which Doñ Nuño Gonzalez de Lara had identified as weak targets. Buoyed by their successes, the Sultan joined his compatriots in the raids, taking plunder and slaves.
Faraj had accompanied them in the last two successful raids into Castillan territory, but he would not do so today, in the attack on the town of Martus. Instead, he waited in the precincts of al-Quasaba, with the royal family and the courtiers who wished the Sultan success.
He stood beside Princess Fatima in the cold balm of morning. Since his return to Gharnatah, they had seen little of each other. His repeated requests for an audience, at first, seemed ill timed. The Crown Prince’s chief eunuch always offered the excuse that she was too busy or indisposed. Faraj was not a fool. He knew she was avoiding him and he suspected the reason, however foolish. He had not corresponded with her during his sojourn in al-Maghrib el-Aska, but surely, she did not care about that.
Even now, her apathy annoyed him, as she stared straight ahead. Though she wore the veil, like other married women around her, he would have known his wife among all others, for only she displayed the coldest indifference to him.
Now, he almost wished he had joined the raiding party, for Fatima’s silence was maddening. He suspected she would have preferred him gone, too. Her sister Muna showed some sympathy, or at least her eyes said as much, whenever she regarded Fatima and him.
The Sultan called the raiders to attention. He rode the length of the entire column of men with a brusque charge. In that moment, he looked nothing like an octogenarian. The energy he displayed enthralled everyone. His family cheered him loudly and lustily in, what must have been for him, a heady reminder of his youthful days.
He accepted the acclaim with a broad, charming grin and spurred his horse toward his family and retainers, who awaited him. Three women approached his horse. His wives and honored concubines wore white silk. Opaque veils covered their hair and faces. The women took hold of the Arabian’s reins without fear, though the horse snorted and tossed his head. The Sultan spoke with each of his women. In turn, they kissed his hands and bid him farewell.
The women moved aside when the Crown Prince approached and bent on one knee at his father’s side. The Sultan dismounted. Words passed between the men beyond the hearing of anyone else. The Sultan clasped his son by the shoulders. They exchanged the kiss of peace. Then the Sultan mounted his horse and raised his hand in salute. He ordered the raiders out of the western gate of al-Qal’at al-Hamra.
Fatima whispered a soft, fervent prayer. When Faraj glanced at her, moisture glistened in her eyes. He laid a hand upon her arm. “He always returns, you know.”
She stiffened at his touch. “If such is the Will of God.” She glared at his hand on the white sleeve of her jubba. A silent command flared in her gaze.
When he withdrew his hand, she turned away without another word.
Without forethought, his fingers closed on her forearm, none too gently.
She stared at him, wide-eyed. “My tutor awaits me.”
“Surely, he can bear the demands of your husband.”
She looked over her shoulder. The princesses Muna and Alimah lingered, with anxious gazes. She waved them away. They hesitated, briefly. When the royal
family and courtiers finally dispersed, some with curious glances at him, Faraj released Fatima’s forearm, which she rubbed gingerly.
He began, “I am sorry if I have hurt you.”
Her soothing gesture stopped. “I’m not fragile and do not bruise easily. Yet, I must warn you. Do not touch me again with so little care. I am a princess and by that title alone, I am worthy of your respect. Because I’m your wife, I also deserve to be treated with gentle care.”
“As your husband, princess, I expect to be treated with the same respect and care you desire. Why then do I feel slighted by you?”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Then let me make my meaning plain. You have ignored me in polite silence and abused me with determined indifference since my return. How have I offended you? I expect a truthful answer from you. I demand it as your husband.”
She frowned and set her hands on her hips. “Very well, I shall tell you how you have offended me. You are a riddle, impossible to understand. Your words and actions are always at odds. You leave for nine months without a word of greeting whilst you are gone. I am your wife. When you treat me with so little interest, you can’t ask for more than the same from me.”
He drew back under her harsh words, but she pressed on. “I want to respect and admire my husband. Yet how can I, when in every instance of our years of marriage, you have shown you don’t care for my thoughts or feelings?”
Faraj shook his head. She was angry because the Sultan had sent him to al-Maghrib el-Aska. If anything, she should have been annoyed with her grandfather. Besides, why did she care about his absence?
He bowed. “I’m sorry to be found so wanting in your eyes.”
Fatima sighed and shook her head, before her angry gaze returned to his.
“Mock me, if you like. You shall have those things of me, which I must give, because they are your due. But, you shall never have my respect, until you can give the same with an open heart.”
Princess Fatima
After her lessons, Fatima returned to the harem and slunk into the hammam. Absentmindedly, she lingered in the water untilher skin reddened. Alone in her room, she brushed her hair before a long silver gilt mirror, while Amoda laundered the clothes and Leeta oversaw the preparation of the evening meal.
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