Muhammad II scratched his dark beard. “What do you suggest I do with the others?”
Hasan’s moon-shaped, pale face colored pink. “Sell them, my Sultan. You would gain favorably, for they are well-trained concubines, skilled in the arts of pleasure. The least among them would fetch a minimum of a thousand dinars, more if sold through an exclusive slave broker.”
The Sultan mulled over the suggestion, a finger tapping at his temple. “Very well, arrange for the sale of the older ones. Of the others, decide which ones would be best suited to private or public auction.”
Hasan bandied the names of prospective merchants and counted their number on his beefy fingers, before his master suddenly interrupted. “You mentioned there are women from Galicia among the slaves. Is there a jarya with a heart-shaped face, unblemished skin and pale eyes?”
Faraj frowned. How had the Sultan ever seen any of his late father’s women to describe one so perfectly? It was unlawful for one man to see another’s women unveiled.
Hasan replied, “Yes, master, that’s the youngest. Her name is Nur al-Sabah.”
The name sounded familiar but Faraj could not place where he had first heard it.
Hasan added, “Since Umar of the clan Mahalli gave this girl to your father, she has become the most highly prized among your father’s slaves. Not only shall she fetch the largest sum, for her beauty, musical talent and intelligence are exquisite assets, but also she remains a virgin. Your late father never bedded her.”
Faraj nodded, understanding Hasan referred to the girl the Sultan had coveted seven years ago, when he was Crown Prince. Had he truly remembered her after all this time? Could one woman be so remarkable that after many years, thoughts of her lingered in a man’s thoughts? Suddenly, an image of Fatima at her father’s coronation flashed in his mind. He shook his head and cleared his thoughts, concentrating on the moment.
Muhammad II said, “I want the Galician for myself. Arrange this before you consider the sale of other concubines.”
Hasan protested, “But, she belonged to your late father.”
The Sultan silenced him with a look. “She is mine. Bring her to me tonight, after Salat al-Isha.”
Princess Fatima
In the glimmer of midday, Fatima dressed in a cloak trimmed with ermine to turn back the cold. She strolled through the grounds between the palace complexes. Her father had startedseveral building projects in the first week of his reign, repairing the roofs and porticos of Grandfather’s palace, which had suffered from years of rain damage. Her father planned to enlarge his residence, with additional apartments for future use. As the widowed monarch of the last bastion of Islam in the peninsula, surely other Muslim rulers would look to him with an eye for a political match, offering their daughters to seal an alliance.
Even knowing this, Fatimawas unprepared for the sight of workmen demolishing the façade of the western wing, part of which included her mother’s oratory. Masons wielded crowbars and hammers against the stucco walls. They attacked the stylized foliage motifs incised in the early days of her grandfather’s reign. Red, black and green glazed tiles crumbled into shards. Dust billowed and covered everything with a thin film, even the blue and violet flowers of the rosemary bushes.
Hasan emerged from a nearby building, which was still intact. The chief eunuch spoke with one of the workers, likely the foreman. Fatima ran to them, interrupting theirconversation.
“Why are they destroying my mother’s sanctuary?” She pointed to the workmen.
Hasan shouted above the din, wheezing with the effort. “My Sultana, you shouldn’t be here in this noisy, dirty place.”
“I don’t care! Tell me what’s happening here.”
“Your father has ordered the destruction of the entire western wing of the palace, my Sultana. Surely you were aware of his plan?”
“I know about the remodeling, but I did not know it would occur at the expense of the rooms here! Hasan, the west wing contains Princess Aisha’s oratory and her private baths. Father cannot tear down the prayer room…it was her sanctuary.”
“He is Sultan, he can do anything.”
Fatima shook her head. Tears blurred her vision as she ran away. How could he do such a thing?
Returning to the harem, she stumbled between rows of myrtle trees at the entrance, and rounded a pool filled with fish. The olive wood doors of her father’s apartments loomed across the garden courtyard.
She approached the entryway. “Open this door.”
The guard nearest to her shook his head and bent on one knee, mumbling something about not disturbing the Sultan and a plea for forgiveness.
She pounded against the heavy wood. “Open the door. Father! Open the door!”
With each passing minute, determination and anger grew until she struck the door in a fury. She nearly fell forward when the portal opened suddenly. Her father stood in the doorway, his qamis wrinkled and barely tucked into his trousers.
“Fatima, what is the matter?”
She stared beyond him into the room. An exquisite woman sat in the center of his bed, a damask cover hiding most of her form, but for her shoulders and one bare leg draped over the edge of the bed. Golden hair cascaded down her back, shimmering against the crimson coverlet.
“For her…for her you are destroying my mother’s sanctuary?”
“Fatima, I do not understand your behavior, but I demand an explanation.”
“I demand one as well! Do you destroy my mother’s sanctuary for a slave?”
He grabbed her wrists, jerked her inside the room and closed the door firmly.
She wrenched from his grasp. “Does she bring you so much pleasure that she has made you forget my mother? I knew when you became Sultan, part of you would be lost to us, but I did not expect my siblings and me would have to share you with some…with this whore!”
He gripped Fatima’s arms. “Do not dare speak of Nur al-Sabah that way!”
Wrapped in the coverlet, the concubine came to his side and placed a hand on his forearm. With this simple gesture, she compelled his full attention.
“Please let her go,” she whispered. “She is your daughter and you love her. Do not do something you shall regret.”
Fatima turned on her as soon as he released her. “I don’t want your help, you….”
“Fatima, get out of my sight before you say more to anger me!” Her father’svoice thundered through the room. “I’ve had enough of your tantrums today. You’re a disgrace.”
“But Father, she….”
“I said leave now, Fatima! Go, or I shall order my guards to put you out!”
He drew the woman to his side and cocooned her in his embrace. Heart hammering in her chest, Fatima opened the olive doors and stumbled into the courtyard. Tears blinded her and she broke into a run, leaving the harem behind. Suddenly, she slammed into hard, lean muscles. She collapsed on to cool marble stone.
“By the Prophet…Fatima, what is the matter?”
Faraj hovered over her. Without another word, he lifted and carried her trembling form. She buried her face in his garments, turning away from those who milled about the precincts, pointing and whispering. Then a wooden door creaked and warmth enveloped her. He sat down and kept his grip on her. She laid her head on his shoulder. His hand massaged her back.
“Relax, draw deep breaths. It’s over. You’re safe now.”
His soothing voice calmed her. When she regained her composure and tried to rise, his grip did not ease. Embarrassed, she struggled against his hold.
“Fatima, stop. I would never hurt you.”
“It is unseemly for you to hold me in this manner. Someone might see us.”
“You are my wife. I may hold you as I please. Besides, we are in my house.”
She stared at him incredulous. “You brought me to your house? Why?”
“I was on my way to meet your father. I did not think. I acted out of concern for you.”
The intimacy of his embrace startled her,
but also brought a sense of safety. Only her father had ever made her feel so secure. Her eyes watered again, but Faraj cradled her close. She cried without restraint, her face buried in the curve of his neck. He said nothing until she stopped shaking.
Then he tugged aside her veil and wiped at her cheeks with a white cotton kerchief. “Tell me what happened.”
Her words tumbled free at his gentle coaxing. She fought against the tightness in her throat. When she finished, he heaved a long sigh.
“In my youth, my father Ismail had a favored concubine, Butayna. She was a Christian captured at Ishbiliya when the Castillans took the city from the Hud. She was the mother of my half-brother, Muhammad. My father loved my mother Leila but he also loved the kadin. It was a love I could not understand or accept and because of it, I grew to resent her place in my father’s life and my father’s love for my brother. Then came the night when my brother and I lost our mothers, mine to a suicide and his to the mercenaries who destroyed our home at Malaka. When I think of that time, I remember the fear in Butayna’s eyes most.”
She cleared her throat. “I know the story of your family’s betrayal. I never thought you would talk about it with me.”
His plaintive gaze met hers. “I’ve never spoken of that time to anyone. I don’t know why I should speak of it now except….”
“Except you understand what it is like to see your father care for another, besides the woman who bore you. It is another thing which we share.”
At his quizzical glance, she continued, “We both lost our mothers as children.”
He rested his forehead against hers. “Your father is still alive, but mine is not. I wish he were, so I could let him know how much I honor him still. You have the chance to do so with your father. He deserves your love and loyalty.”
“I know and he has it, until my death…but, he loves the kadin. I saw it in his eyes, his tenderness toward her.”
He leaned back, his eyes meeting hers again. “You begrudge him happiness? Did you think he would pine for your mother forever?”
She shook her head, but mumbled, “In some ways, I had hoped he would.”
“If he has found love again, rejoice in his happiness. Love is so fleeting in this world. Each of us must take our happiness where we can find it.”
She said nothing, staring into his dark eyes. They had never been this close before in theiryears of marriage. His almond-eyed gaze remained level with hers for a time. Then he leaned closer, his lips hovering close to hers. She drew in a breath. Her heart pounded so loudly, he must surely have heard it.
“What is this?”
A high-pitched screech echoed from a woman who stood in the archway. Her gauzy garments revealed more skin than they covered. Cosmetics enhanced her curvy lips and alabaster cheeks.
She tossed her head, sending dark chestnut waves tumbling off her shoulders. She pinned Faraj with her gaze. “I have been waiting for your return, master. You promised you would summon me when you arrived. Now, I find you with this woman. Who is she?”
Through gritted teeth, Faraj said, “You’ll speak with respect about my wife, Baraka. She is the Sultana Fatima. Remember that you’re only a concubine.”
The jarya’s hard green eyes glittered. “Yet it is my body which pleasures you every night. You cannot favor her over me. Why is she here?”
Faraj set Fatima aside. When he dumped her on the floor in his fury, she gasped. He glared at the woman, having forgotten all about Fatima. “She’s none of your concern. Get back to the harem!”
The concubine’s eyes narrowed. She disappeared into the adjoining chamber. He raked his hand through his heavy, silken hair and turned to Fatima.
“I am sorry she interrupted us.”
Fatima clasped her hands together and eyed him. “Do not apologize, my prince.”
He frowned and reached for her. She drew back from his grasp. “I should leave now. I promised to read to my sisters.”
“Very well…but before you go, I wish to say…I hope you understand about Baraka.”
She shook her head. Bitter bile filled her throat. She swallowed past a choking sensation and ground out an answer. “I do not want to hear about your kadin. My father’s lover is enough.”
Faraj rubbed his temples. “She is not my kadin. She’s been with me for years, but she is not my favorite.”
“Is there another who is the favorite then? When we first married, Father told me you had three concubines. Surely, one of them has endeared herself to you. It’s no wonder you can defend my father. You’re just like him.”
“I cannot believe it. I bring you into my home to offer you comfort and this is my thanks? A jealous tirade!”
She cast him an icy glare, and then left him, slamming the door in her wake.
Chapter 14
The Heart of al-Andalus
Prince Faraj
Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Muharram 672 AH (Granada, Andalusia: July AD 1273)
On the first day of a New Year, Faraj hurried to the Sultan’s throne room. When he passed through the great doors of the marble room, its occupants fell silent, regarding him with expectant eyes.
He strode toward Muhammad II and bowed, before whispering. “Our spies have confirmed the report. We are ready.”
The Sultan rubbed his hands together. “We march for Madinah Antaqirah.”
Faraj sighed to disguise the thrill of anticipation coursing through him, though others were not so cautious.
Only the Sultan remained silent. For a moment, he stared straight ahead, almost blindly. His lips thinned in a grim line. Then he dismissed the assembly. He rose with a gesture toward Faraj, who followed him to the audience chamber.
The Sultan asked over his shoulder, “Do the commanders believe the Ashqilula have been forewarned of our intent, cousin?”
Faraj replied, “No, the commanders do not believe so.”
“Our plans are secure for the moment. We must make haste if we are to catchthe Ashqilula by surprise, as we were surprised today.”
Faraj kept his silence, as they entered the vast room where the Gharnati and Marinid commanders awaited them. The Castillan, Doñ Nuño Gonzalez de Lara, and his sons stood alongside the Moorish soldiers.
The Marinids Umar and his brother Talha had come to Gharnatah nearly eight years before. The Sultan had recently appointed Umar to the post of al-Shaykh al-Ghuzat, commander of the Volunteers of the Faith, the Berber and expatriate Andalusi warriors who served in Gharnatah. Umar remained loyal to his master in Fés el-Bali, but Muhammad II believed he aided Andalusi interests, unless they threatened Marinid interests. Faraj did not envy Umar for serving two masters.
The commanders spoke with the Sultan. Their plans were for a swift and surreptitious deployment of men to Madinah Antaqirah. The old Sultan once called the city ‘the heart of al-Andalus’ thought it occupied the coastal region. Faraj would join the campaign, as part of the detachment of cavalry under Talha’s command.
When Muhammad II dismissed the commanders, Faraj left too.
Soon, at an impulse, he stood at the entrance to the Sultan’s harem. Yet he couldn’t enter without permission, not even to see his own wife. Shaking his head at his foolishness, he turned to go. Just then, one of the princesses entered the precincts, accompanied by a wiry eunuch. Dark red hair spilled from the confines of her light-colored gauzy veils. Her dark eyes sparkled with recognition and she approached him.
“The peace of our God be with you, Prince Faraj. I am the Sultana Muna, Fatima’s sister. Are you waiting for her?”
Faraj recalled Princess Muna, who her father had betrothed to a prince of the Zayyanids, the rulers of al-Jaza’ir.
He bowed before her. “I made no formal request to speak with your sister.” When she frowned, he paused and looked around. “Perhaps then, you wonder why I am here at all. I hadn’t planned on it. I walked without direction and found myself at these doors, I suppose.”
“Fatima told us what happened.” The princess’s eyes o
ffered pity but he wasn’t sure whether she meant it for him, her sister, or both. “I believe she is still within. I shall fetch her.”
Faraj lingered at the base of the steps until Fatima appeared. She hesitated,frozen on the spot, her brow furrowed. She wore a tunic and skirt, her hair a billowing mass curled at her shoulders. When he gestured to the stone bench adjacent the northern wall, she slowly descended the steps. Her gaze averted, she slunk past him and sank on the marble, her hands balled into fists on her lap. Small sandaled feet peeked out under her skirt.
Faraj sat beside her on the cold bench. She flinched. Her face paled.
“Do you think I would harm you, Fatima?”
“I don’t know what you’ll do.” She gave him a furtive glance. “But I won’t let you hurt me.”
His heart soared in esteem. Pride suited her well. He wouldn’t have her any other way.
“Though it seems hard to believe, we’ve been wed for eight years this month.” At her sigh, he continued, “Yet, we still know so little of each other’s moods. You’re hardly the child I married, even if you still do childish things.”
He met her stare, just as a spasm of irritation rippled across her face. Her fingers clenched so tightly, he wondered that the nails did not draw blood.
Her mouth crimped in a determined line. “What do you mean by childish things?”
“You understand me well, I think. When you endanger yourself in intrigues and letters between you and an Ashqilula slave, you risk your safety and disregard the concerns of those who care for you. That is childishness.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you.” She shrank away from him. “I thought my actions showed how much I care for and love my father.”
His hand covered hers. “He’s not the only person who cares for you.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you saying you care for me as well?”
“You are my wife.”
“That’s not an answer!”
“It’s the only answer I can give!”
She withdrew from his touch, her face drawn and pinched.
He sighed and raked his hands through his hair. “Tell me, as you told the Sultan this morning, how you learned about the defenses at Madinah Antaqirah. I expect full candor. Do you understand me?”
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