Sultana: A Novel of Moorish Spain

by Lisa J. Yarde

  Euphoric, she confessed all in a rush of words. “Six weeks after he left Ishbiliya, Faraj departed from Gharnatah for al-Maghrib el-Aska to meet with the Marinid Sultan. Ulayyah reports the Ashqilula have sent an assassin to intercept him. Despite a peace treaty between the Sultan and Castilla-Leon, there have been raids at the border again. Marauders killed the Muslim governor at Martus last week and took hostages for ransom. King Alfonso claims he does not support these raids, but Father cannot allow the Castillans to make a fool of him. He needs a strong ally, like the Marinids. He has sent my husband to their Sultan with entreaties and the promise of the strategic ports at al-Jazirah al-Khadra and Tarif. Somehow, the Ashqilula learned of Faraj’s intent. They have dispatched someone to the Marinid capital to kill him.

  “He must know of the danger he faces. You shall go to Fés el-Bali and warn my husband of the assassin. Ulayyah said the Ashqilula man left the port at Malaka one day before the date of the letter, so he must be in al-Maghrib el-Aska already. You must leave today.”

  Amoda arrived with the food. Niranjan ate, while Fatima struggled to soothe the erratic thoughts swirling through her head into a precise message for her husband. When Niranjan finished his meal, she settled on what she would say. He rehearsed her words until he could repeat the speech verbatim.

  Then he asked, “Others, in particular your father, shall want to know where I have gone. How can you explain my absence to the Sultan?”

  She paced, dragging her coverlet behind her. “Father plans the celebration of the birth of his new daughter. I want a very special gift for him.”

  She halted and stared at Niranjan. “What do you think of my father’s choices in women?”

  He cocked his head. “I see the Sultan ranks beauty, intelligence and wit as high ideals in his women. Although he acknowledges beauty fades with time, I suspect he prefers it to wit. Beauty and intelligence in equal measure seem to please him with the kadin.”

  Fatima’s face grew hot at the mention of the woman. “In al-Maghrib el-Aska, you shall procure a jarya of exotic beauty and worthy intellect. If anyone, including my father, should inquire about your departure, speak only of this part of your journey.”

  Niranjan shifted on the stool. “It shall be done, my Sultana. However, I must say your father is faithful to Nur al-Sabah al-Muhammad. He did not want another woman in the long months before she birthed her daughter. I believe your father is in love with the kadin, my Sultana.”

  “It is unworthy of him to show devotion to a slave!” She threw the coverlet off her shoulders, breath coming raw in her throat.

  He stared, his eyes wide. She knelt beside him and patted his hand.

  “If the Marinids accept Father’s offer, they may want a political marriage. No Sultana should rank second best to a slave. The kadin is no different from any other jarya who has ever infatuated Father. When another woman tempts him, he shall forget her.”

  She met his potent stare. “Find me a jarya to seduce Father’s heart and mind.”

  Prince Faraj

  Fés el-Bali, al-Maghrib el-Aska: Rajab 672 AH (Fez, Morocco: January AD 1274)

  Faraj strolled through the royal madina of Fés el-Bali, capital city of the Marinids, at a leisurely pace. The city was a chaotic jumble of spectacular new monuments, interposed among decayed palaces and fortificationsfrom the previous dynasties that had ruled al-Maghrib el-Aska. The great fortresses and mosques of the empire of al-Murabitun vied with the ornate palace complexes and lush baths built by al-Muwahhidun rulers long ago. Marinid mosques, hospitals, mental asylums, hospitals and religious schools dotted the landscape. Faraj made mental notes about everything he saw, intending to provide Fatima with a full account of the city when he returned home to her. Perhaps, when he’d had enough of her father’s intrigues, he would return to this land and bring her with him. He sighed with longing for such a day when he might know peace with her at his side.

  Since his arrival two weeks earlier, he had enjoyed the comfort of a guesthouse on the palace grounds. The Marinid Sultan’s chief minister, al-Shaykh Abu Bakr Ibn Yala assured him the delay should not offend. His master knew the purpose of Faraj’s journey and intended to see him soon.

  In the meantime, Faraj could not complain for the treatment he had received. Each night, Ibn Yala’s slaves prepared dishes that displayed the variety and excellence of Maghribi cuisine. He often enjoyed excellent harrira soup, made of mutton and spices and couscous - the mutton, vegetables and semolina being the only ingredients he could identify.

  The Marinid capital atFés el-Bali was an intricate maze, in which he would have been lost without the knock-kneed young boy who always led him through the streets. His host, Ibn Yala, had provided the boy’s services. This morning, Faraj attended the Great Mosque of al-Qarawiyyin and its madrasa, one of the oldest sites in al-Maghrib el-Aska. The mosque’s tiledcourtyard afforded an interesting view of the city and its myriad people.

  Now, he and his guide rested in the shadow of the courtyard. Faraj marked the progress of the faithful to and from the mosque, while he contemplated home and Fatima. She had endeared herself to him and never strayed far from his thoughts. Powerful emotion filled his heart, feelings he had never expected.

  The ancient battlements surrounding Fés el-Bali loomed over the green-tiled rooftop of the mosque and madrasa. The city stood on the banks of the Wadi Fés and was more thanfive hundred years old. Despite its narrow winding streets and the buildings that were a jumble of confusion for any non-Fezi, surely this ancient city remained one of the most beautiful in al-Maghrib. In the distance, dust clouds rose, as did the sounds of men giving orders to each other. Faraj wondered at the daily toil and cacophony that reached him. He supposed the Marinid Sultan must be on another building project across the Wadi Fés.

  When he left al-Qarawiyyin a moment later, he became absorbed inthe chaotic, aromatic splendor around him. Easily distracted, a sudden grip on his shoulder startled him. He drew his scimitar and whirled, prepared to strike a deathblow.

  “No, master, it’s me, Niranjan!”

  The hooded figure pulled back his head covering hastily. Faraj beckoned the bewildered guide to remain nearby and confronted the trembling servant of his wife.

  “Fool! I could have killed you. What are you doing in Fés el-Bali?”

  “I have been searching for you. I first saw you here two days ago, then yesterday again. I realized you must come every day at the same time.”

  “What would you have done if I had not come today?”

  With a sheepish grin, Niranjan replied, “I would have waited until you came.”

  “Again, why are you here? Did something happen to Fatima, is she hurt?”

  “No, the Sultana is quite well. Yet, I have come because of her.” Niranjan looked beyond him to his guide. “I must speak to you in private. When can I meet with you, alone?”

  “I shall come again to Qarawiyn this afternoon for prayer.”

  “Without the boy?”

  Faraj looked over his shoulder. “I have memorized the route. Why don’t you want me to come with the boy? Are you certain nothing has happened to Fatima?”

  “Master, I promise you, the Sultana is well. Though, I believe she misses you terribly.”

  “Surely, you cannot have come all the way here just to tell me that? If you are lying, if she is hurt, I swear….”

  “Do not be forsworn, master. It may bring you bad luck. I vow upon my soul, your wife is as you left her.”

  “You just told me not to swear!”

  “I never have bad luck, master.I must go. Tomorrow, I shall meet you in the white courtyard, just after Salat al-‘Asr has ended.”

  Niranjan disappeared into the crowd before Faraj could think to say another word. The dense throng hid the escape route, despite all of Faraj’sefforts to find the exasperating eunuch again.

  Farajresumed walking to the palace behind his guide. Worry shadowed his footfalls. What hadFatima deemed of such importance that she sent N
iranjan, with such urgency and secrecy?

  When Farajarrived at the guesthouse, his apprehension subsided. Stalwart guards allowed him past the iron gates. Ibn Yala stood at the entryway, between two shady, argan trees growing out of the semi-desert soil. Ibn Yala gave him a gap-toothed smile from thin, nearly black lips that barely stood out from the rest of his coal-colored appearance. The minister was pigeon-toed, which gave him an odd gait. His paunch, jutting beneath loose-fitting robes, seemed out of place on an otherwise scrawny body with bony shoulders and claw-like hands.

  “May the peace of God be with you, Prince Faraj. I bring good news. The Sultan shall see you tomorrow evening. One hour after the prayers of Salat al-Maghrib, you shall dine with the Sultan and enjoy his entertainment. Then you may speak the concerns of your master, the Sultan of Gharnatah.”

  The minister bowed before he went on his way. Faraj went to the hammam. A massage with rich argan oil should have soothed him, but his mind remained preoccupied. Niranjan’s startling arrival perplexed him. It also worried him. The servant would never have come to al-Maghrib el-Aska except at the behest of his mistress. Such a clandestine visit couldn’t bode well for Gharnatah. Niranjan’s arrival also warned of his wife’s activities during his absence. As expected, she kept to her intrigues with the Ashqilula spy. He gritted his teeth at the thought of her continued defiance.

  “Master, you’re not relaxed,” the masseuse purred at his back. The willow-thin, naked, slave girl rubbed his shoulders, brushing her pert nipples across his skin. He might have responded to her bold invitation, but only one woman swayed his desires and emotions now.

  At the designated hour of prayer, he returned to al-Qarawiyyin. He dismissed his guide, despite the boy’s protest and stood in the shadows of its white courtyard. Though convinced the child reported his activities to Ibn Yala, at least Faraj could be certain he would enjoy privacy.

  Desert wind spiraled through the city. Niranjan appeared as if out of the whirlwind. Faraj blinked fast. How had the eunuch avoided being seen before now? Niranjan beckoned him to a more secluded spot, apart from those who idled about the mosque’s courtyard.

  “May the peace of God be with you, master. You came alone?”

  “You said I should. Now what is this all about, why this secrecy?”

  “I come bearing a message from your noble wife.”

  Faraj held out his hand for the anticipated missive. “Well, give me the letter.”

  “I cannot, for the Sultana made me memorize the message. She bid me say, ‘Husband, your life is in danger. Even as you meet with the Marinid Sultan, the enemies of Gharnatah seek your death. The governor of Malaka has sent an assassin to kill you. You must alert the Marinid Sultan to the danger and ensure the Ashqilula fail.’ That is the entire message, master.”

  Faraj retreated among the shadows below the wall. He watched the crowd for a menacing face or gleaming eyes, full of purpose. If Fatima’s servant found him within two days of his arrival, surely nothing should stop a trained assassin from doing the same.

  “Master, what shall we do?” Niranjan asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “Come back with me to the palace!”

  They returned to the guesthouse in silence. Faraj maintaineda brisk walk. His heart thumped so loud, it seemed ready to burst from his chest before they reached the grounds.

  Within the safety of the palace complex and the guesthouse, Niranjan gasped and leaned against a wall to catch his breath. Faraj called for a slave with water. Drinking greedily, he asked Niranjan to remain and eat, but the servant shook his head.

  “We risked enough being seen together today, master.”

  “If the assassin followed me to Fés el-Bali, why has he hesitated to strike? He’s had many opportunities at al-Qarawiyyin with only the boy at my side.”

  “My mistress knows only of his intent, not his plans.”

  “Did she tell you how she learned about this plot?”

  “Yes.”

  Faraj frowned at the one-word reply. His wife anticipated his displeasure, but her servant’s loyalty protected her.

  “Your mistress has your trust and devotion?”

  “The Sultana trusts me.”

  “Yet, you owe your accountability, indeed, your very life to the Sultan of Gharnatah. Doesn’t he deserve your unfettered loyalty?”

  “The Sultan has my loyalty. Every duty I perform on his daughter’s behalf is based on her loyalty and love for her father.”

  Faraj shook his head. Niranjan’s skill with words could rival any diplomat in Gharnatah or al-Maghrib.

  “Does the Sultan know you are here in al-Maghrib el-Aska?”

  “Yes, I asked his permission before I left Gharnatah. Only the Sultana Fatima knew the full purpose of my coming here. Others, including the Sultan, were misled. They believed my sole purpose was to visit the great slave market of Fés el-Bali, in search of a rare and special gift from Sultana Fatima for her father.”

  “Who concocted the lie, you, or her?”

  “Such a thing is not a lie. My mistress charged me to find a new pleasure slave for her father. I have found the girl, a most exquisite slave of noble birth, with hair as black as the Kaaba in the Holy City. I have fulfilled the dual responsibilities with which my mistress charged me. I merely omitted half of my purpose from everyone else.”

  “I understand. Are you returning to al-Andalus now?”

  “I’ll fetch the slave from the marketplace and make my way homeward. Is there a message for my mistress?”

  Faraj considered his words. “Tell her we shall talk when I return to Gharnatah.”

  Niranjan bowed and left him.

  Later, when dressed for dinner, Faraj followed the escort Ibn Yala provided. The Sultan’s minister met him at the entrance of the palace.

  A group of men exited the ornate horseshoe gateway, chattering loudly. Recognizing their language as the vernacular spoken in the Christian kingdom of Aragon, Faraj asked Ibn Yala about them.

  The chief minister answered, “Those are the ambassadors of the King of Aragon, my prince. We have signed a peace treaty with them.”

  Faraj asked, “Is this the reason your honorable master delayed our meeting?”

  “Yes. Understand if I could not tell you so beforehand, but now you know.”

  “This is interesting. I wonder what Castilla-Leon shall think of this treaty, since it is Aragon’s neighbor and the Castillan King is married to a daughter of Aragon.”

  Ibn Yala raised his eyebrows. “I expect the Castillans might not be pleased by our new alliance. The treaty forbids Aragon from aiding its neighbors in aggression against other Muslim lands, including wars in Gharnatah.”

  Faraj smiled. “It is remarkable you were able to effect such terms.”

  Ibn Yala nodded. “The world is remarkable, made even more so by money and greed.”

  The pair bypassed the gate and entered a spacious courtyard with a murmuring fountain at its center, surrounded by palm trees, acanthus leaves and the pale yellow of the narcissus flower. The setting sun threw long shadows against buildings ornamented with glazed tiles, each entryway bordered by carved and painted wooden arches, cornices and marble columns. The harsh desert climate sharply contrasted against the lushness of al-Andalus.

  Guards lined a long, intricately carved wall. Ibn Yala gestured to the doors ahead.

  Faraj had prepared his arguments with the Marinid Sultan against the Ashqilula. They wanted to kill him, as they did when he was a child. He would not allow them to do what they had done to his father.

  “Prince Faraj!” Ibn Yala pushed him to the ground and drew his dagger.

  So, the chief ministerwas the assassin. There was no Ashqilula plot to murder him, just Marinid treachery. Faraj faced the prospect of the violent death he had escaped as a child. But he would not submit to fate. If he died today, the Sultan’s devious minister would fall with him.

  Then, he realized the guards had surged forward and restrained one of their own. One o
f the soldiers tore the lance from the man’s murderous grasp.

  Ibn Yala’s expression betrayed shock, fierce anger and relief in turns. “Are you unharmed, Prince Faraj? I’m sorry I was so rough, but he was prepared to kill you.”

  When Faraj nodded, Ibn Yala sheathed his dagger and faced the would-be murderer. “Who is this traitor who would attack a guest?”

  The captain of the guardsmen answered, “He arrived nearly two weeks ago from the fort at Sebta. The commander wrote that he is a cousin of his and fit to join the royal corps.”

  “I know the commander at Sebta,” Ibn Yala snarled. “He’s an orphan with no relations. Bring the letters of assignment to me. I’ll prove they are forgeries. Take our prisoner to the dungeon. I want him unharmed but prepared to talk. The Sultan and, I believe our guest, shall wish to speak with him before he’s executed.”

  Ibn Yala helped Faraj to his feet. “Someone wanted to prevent our meeting.”

  Faraj nodded. “Yes and I know exactly who’s responsible.”

  Chapter 17

  Homecoming

  Princess Fatima

  Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Sha’ban 672 AH (Granada, Andalusia: February AD 1274)

  A month passed once Niranjan returned to Gharnatah. Fatima waited for word of her husband. Each messenger who arrived at court every day filled her heart with terror. Fearful imagining of Faraj’s brutal death at the hands of some unknown assassin haunted her nights.

  Dreading sleep, she stood in her father’s garden in the late evening. A wintry chill swept down from the mountains, scattering dried leaves and wilted petals. The sky glowed in ominous hues of orange, red and purple, as though fire had set the heavens ablaze.

  Leeta bowed beside her.

  She sighed. “Yes, Leeta, I know it’s time for dinner with Father and my sisters. Can you tell them that I won’t come tonight?”

  “The invitation to dine came from your husband.”

  The breath caught in her throat. “He’s…home?”

  Leeta smiled. “The message just arrived from your husband’s house. He wants to dine with you this evening. Isn’t that wonderful news?”