A chill swept up her spine. She clasped and unclasped her icy fingers.
Leeta patted her shoulder. “Don’t be nervous, you’ve longed for his return. Now he’s here and we must find some lovely attire for the evening. Perhaps the black jubba with the braid embroidery? Let’s consider it in the hammam.”
Leeta ushered her from the garden into the small alcove at the entrance to the bath. Beautiful turquoise and beige pigments covered the walls of the room. Naksh calligraphy incised at the top of each wall extolled the virtues of cleanliness. The colors and artistrytransformed the otherwise utilitarian area into a place of beauty. In one corner, a marble water fountain stood at the center of a low pool. A carved stool sat before the fountain, while a tray of implements lay on a smaller stool next to the wall. Two thick wool towels hung on a brass rod.
“Sit and I shall tend to you, my Sultana.”
Fatima relaxed as Leeta pinned her hair up, before inspecting the bathing tools. Fatima gestured to a thick scrub, made of ground apricot seeds mixed with milk and almond oil in a copper jar. Leeta smoothed it from her neck downward. Then she took a bronze scraper from the tray and removed the sticky mixture, occasionally rinsing the scraper in the fountain. Fatima sighed as Leeta dipped a thick sponge in the water and lightly wiped the contours of flesh.
When Leeta finished the ritual, she reached under the stool where Fatima sat. Removing two pairs of bath sandals made of cork. Fatima stepped into the smaller pair. Fatima led the way into the next chamber, while Leeta followed with towels draped over her arm.
Three times the size of the first room, the harsh glare of sunset sent light streaming into the bathing area through rounded glass windows near the ceiling. Torches in the corners reflected light toward a large square pool at the center. Four columns at each corner of the room supported the roof.
Fatima sat at the edge of the pool, while her servant scrubbed her skin with olive oil, alkali and natron. Then she dove under the water and washed.
Later, perfumed and massaged, she returned to her bedchamber where Leeta and Amoda dressed her. The women wrapped her in a black silk robe. Slippers, a beautiful full-length wrap and gossamer black veils completed her attire.
She frowned at the number of jewelry pieces on the bed; a long necklace of opals and rings, bracelets and anklets. “This is not a state occasion, Leeta.”
“But my Sultana, this is your first occasion to dine in private with your husband. Show him that you value your bridal trousseau.”
While Amoda affixed the necklace, its pendant the size of an egg, Fatima replied, “I doubt my husband shall be concerned about whether I am wearing anything among the gifts he has given me. He’s probably deciding whether to beat me or have me locked in my rooms.”
Amoda applied light cosmetics to her face. “My Sultana, surely he’s not cruel.”
“Neither of you have husbands yet, so you wouldn’t know.”
Behind Fatima, her pet kite twittered loudly, perched on the bow of her cage. She patted the cage. The bird was the only present from Faraj that she truly treasured.
Niranjan entered the room. “You look enchanting, my Sultana. By your permission, may I escort you to dinner with your husband?”
She glared at her servants, who blushed and tittered behind their hands. “Does everyone in the palace know I’m to dine with Faraj?”
Bundling her wrap around her shoulders, she murmured, “But perhaps it’s for the best. He’ll be less inclined to kill me if more people are aware of my evening with him.”
In silence, she followed Niranjan to Faraj’s house at the southwest limits of the madina. The red brick residence with its walled gate looked sinister in the dim light. She recalled her first visit, which had been pleasant until Faraj’s slave appeared. Now, a household servant waited outside the horseshoe-arched door.
Niranjan stopped under the shade of a juniper tree. “I await you here, my Sultana.”
She drew in a deep breath and crossed the smooth cobblestones to meet the prince’s servant.
“My Sultana, I pray the peace of God be with you. I am the steward of the house, Marzuq. I welcome you in your husband’s name.”
“Thank you for your gracious welcome.”
The steward led her inside. She remembered the small antechamber strewn with cushions. They emerged at an indoor courtyard with a lonely fountain, which led to a small dining hall, where Faraj waited.
After so many weeks apart, she took in the full measure of him, her heart swelling with pride, which dampened all her fears. He looked very handsome, dressed in black and gold robes.
“I bid you welcome.” He gestured to the cushion at her feet.
Fatima stopped staring and sat down. The servant bowed and left.
Puzzled, she turned to her husband, “If he goes, who shall serve us?”
Faraj chuckled. “You’ve never been without servants for even one night?”
“I’m a princess.”
“Indeed. Allow me to attend you.”
He lifted the covers of the platters and she gasped.
“I asked your father about your food preferences when I returned to Gharnatah this morning. He said lamb kebabs and rice with carrot, onion, garlic and scallion were your favorites, but ‘tharid was also something you enjoyed. He also said my cook should not flavor the dessert pudding with too many almonds or too much sugar. Was he right?”
Their conversation throughout the meal began on a light, entertaining note, but soon Fatima dug her fingernails into her palms, stifling a scream of exasperation. After her husband praised the Marinids for saving him from the assassin and shared the success of his meeting with their Sultan, now he spoke of the architectural wonders and cuisine of Fés el-Bali.
“You’re not really listening to me, are you?” His voice intruded on her internal ramblings.
“What? I am listening. You just said the people of Fés el-Bali eat too much camel meat, which they sell within the sacred confines of al-Qarawiyyin Mosque.”
“Indeed. What is the matter?”
“Can you truly ask that? Have you no idea what might be bothering me?”
“It is obvious I do not know, so please tell me.”
She threw up her hands. “I’m awaiting your judgment, your punishment! Yet, you relate ridiculous stories of the people of Fés el-Bali and their camel meat. I wish you would simply shout at me and be done with it.”
Faraj smiled. “You’d prefer my anger to my hospitality? It’s a strange choice.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, fuming.
He tugged her hands away. “If you await punishment, Fatima, you wait in vain. I knew you would disobey me when you promised never to be involved with the Ashqilula slave again. I’ve always known how you value the safety of your family above all else.”
“I didn’t send Niranjan just to protect our family. I sent him for you.”
“It was very loyal of you.”
“You’re my husband. You should have my loyalty.”
“I am grateful for it. As to future letters from this slave, you shall deliver them to me. I shall commend them to the Sultan. Do you understand me, Fatima? I want to see every letter. No more secrets between us.”
She stared at him, perplexed by his easy resolve. “I understand and I swear upon the blessed ninety-nine names of God, you shall have every letter.”
“You have sworn by our God and such is a sacred oath.”
“I know, you needn’t caution me. Why did you send for me if not to punish me?”
“I wished to enjoy the company of my wife whom I have not seen for nearly two months. Is it not right that I should wish to be with you?”
His candid expression made her heart soar. “May I ask something?”
“What is it that you wish to know?”
She cleared her throat. “In the years we have been married, you’ve never tried to kiss me. Don’t you want to kiss me? I’m not a child anymore.”
He stared wide-eyed a
nd laughed, an uproarious sound filling the room.
Her face grew hot. “I do not understand what is so amusing about my question.”
He wiped the corner of his eyes. “There shall never be a dull moment in this marriage.”
“I do not understand your reaction to a simple question.”
“Oh, Fatima, nothing with you is ever simple.”
She threw up her hands again in disgusted resignation. “You make sport of me and I shall not tolerate it. By your leave, I bid you goodnight.”
When she stood, he grasped her hand. “I did not give you leave. Please sit and let me talk with you.” He tugged her down to the cushions. “Take off your hijab.”
“What? Why should I remove my veil?”
“Please indulge me and take it off. I haven’t seen you unveiled since the day of our first meeting.”
He reached for the sheer cloth covering her hair. She slapped his hands away and removed the pins holding the veil in place. Seemingly impatient, he helped, though his touch was as gentle as Amoda’s own. He smoothed back the locks from her brow. One curly strand slipped through his fingertips.
“Do you remember the first time I brought you to this house? When you confided in me in one instance and then railed at me in another?”
She ducked her head but he grasped her chin and leaned closer. “I see by the blush on your cheeks that you do.”
“How could I forget? You were very disagreeable that afternoon.”
“Is that why you blush so prettily?”
She shook her head.
“Fatima, since that evening and many times afterward, I’ve wanted to kiss you.”
She swallowed. “You have?”
He loomed closer, stroking the length of her hair. “How would you like me to kiss you, exactly?”
His mouth met hers and her eyes closed of their own volition. She became aware of different things - the tangy taste of apricot juice, the tender stroke of his thumb across her cheek.
Abruptly the kiss ended.
“Well, was that to your satisfaction, Fatima?”
“I’ve never been kissed before. I would have to try several more kisses to be sure.” She pursed her lips again.
“Well, it’s true you’ve never been kissed before. Our kiss confirmed it.”
Suddenly downcast, she reached for the hijab to cover her hair again. “The hour grows very late. This has been a pleasant evening, but I think I should leave.”
Deep lines furrowed his brow. “Why, are we not having a pleasant time here together? Stay, we might practice some more of the kissing.”
“I’m tired. Please permit me to take my leave.”
He stood when she did, his hands on her shoulders. “You’re annoyed with me.”
“Please let me go.”
“At least, let me escort you to the harem gates.”
She headed for the door across the courtyard.
“You need not. My Niranjan can protect me,” she said over her shoulder, but his footsteps followed.
At the entrance, she bid him farewell. Niranjan stood under the juniper tree, his gaze seemingly on the star-filled sky.
Faraj grimaced. “Indeed, your faithful bodyguard awaits you. His loyalty appears boundless. I…bid you good night.”
“You also, my prince.”
Chapter 18
The Rivals
Princess Fatima
Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Sha’ban 672 AH (Granada, Andalusia: February AD 1274)
Faraj’s return from al-Maghrib el-Aska preceded a landmark ceremony three days later; the investiture of the Sultan’s chancery, the Diwan al-Insha. Fatima joined her aunt Maryam and her grandfather’s widows for the occasion. Behind the latticed purdah, the sweet odor of the poppy seed in Sultana Hamda’s water pipe suffused the air.
Suddenly, she started, her eyes widening with fury. “What are you doing here? You are not welcome!”
Fatima turned and found the Sultana Faridah, mother of the Ashqilula governor of Malaka, standing in the shadows. Her once fair skin was sallow and gray hair peeked beneath her veil. Her large eyes were rheumy. In her youth, they had been a vibrant, sparkling sea-green color.
“There is no reason Faridah should be unwelcome among us,” Sultana Qamar said in a conciliatory attempt, “after all, she is sister to our late husband, Hamda.”
“She is an Ashqilula spy. Her son is the governor of Malaka,” Sultana Maryam said, casting a cold emerald-eyed gaze at Faridah, who drew back under her harsh scrutiny, her pallid face marred with misery. Her eyes glistened with moisture.
Before a tear could fall, Fatima moved from the forefront. She took Faridah’s hand and addressed the other Sultanas.
“You should be ashamed of yourselves. How dare you heap scorn on her? She shares Father’s blood and mine. She is a Sultana and shall always be welcome here.”
Aunt Maryam colored with indignation. “My father did not want her here and neither shall my brother. She is a traitor to our family. Call the guards.”
Fatima pulled Faridah closer. “How dare you? Sultana Maryam, we both bear Ashqilula blood, through our mothers. If there are any among us with questionable loyalties, it should be you and me.”
“I have no idea what you accuse me of,” Sultana Maryam said, her eyes narrow with disdain, “but I tell you, girl, I shall not stand for it.”
Fatima frowned at the odd choice of words on her aunt’s part. “I accuse you of nothing, but you have no right to judge Sultana Faridah. More than blood ties still bind us to the Ashqilula.”
She continued glaring at the room’s occupants. “Can you tell me, the Sultan’s daughter, to go as well?”
Sultana Maryam rolled her eyes in disgust and faced the stucco wall, while Hamda focused with renewed interest on the water pipe.
Fatima squeezed Sultana Faridah’s hand affectionately. “Sit with me.”
The wounded look in her dark eyes disappeared. They shone with gratitude. “I could not. The place of honor belongs to the women of the current Sultan’s harem. But, I do wish to stay.”
“Then I pray you shall sit beside me,” Sultana Qamar said, indicating space beside her.
With her aunt ensconced beside her grandfather’s widow, Fatima took her seat again and witnessed her father appointing his foremost minister of the council. For more than thirty years, her tutor Ibn Ali had served the Sultans of Gharnatah. He taught her father and his brothers and her generation of royal children. He deserved this greatest of honors.
Now he knelt on aged knees with a slight groan, while the Sultan poured a drop of rosemary oil on his high forehead and proclaimed, “Arise, Ibn Ali, Hajib of the Diwan al-Insha, Prime Minister of my court and leader of my chancery. By the blessings of God, long may you serve this esteemed council and the people of Gharnatah.”
Ibn Ali stood on spindly legs and flashed a crooked smile. The gesture softened his liver-spotted, careworn face, with its fleshy wattle beneath the chin. The Sultan bestowed the kiss of peace on his former tutor. The room erupted in applause. Fatima’s heart soared, as she joined the acclaim.
Fatima and her aunt Faridah strolled arm-in-arm, between rows of myrtle trees along the garden path outside the throne room.
“I wish you had told me of your intention to visit Gharnatah, Aunt.”
The elderly woman sighed. “I feared I might not be welcome. At first, the guards refused to allow me up through the tower from the garden entry. One among them had to convince his fellows that only a Sultana of Gharnatah would know the secret passages into the throne room.”
“Does your son Abu Muhammad know you’re here?”
“I don’t share everything with him. A woman must have her own secrets.”
Fatima nodded in understanding. “Can you stay with me?”
“I’ll return to Malaka this evening with the camel caravans. I came only for the day to witness the proceedings. Ibn Ali was a favorite of my brother’s.”
Fatima halted and touched Faridah’s ch
eek. “You must miss Grandfather so.”
“I cried alone when I heard of his passing, while my son and his compatriots cheered. To think, I raised Abu Muhammad upon my brother’s knee. There was a time when he loved his uncle. Now, I only wish I might die rather than endure this conflict between our two families.”
The women resumed walking, passing through her father’s courtyard.
Fatima said, “I wish you would stay a little longer. Tonight, my father hosts a feast to celebrate the birth of his daughter.”
“He has sired another girl. So, the rumors of the kadin who’s stolen his heart are true?”
Fatima drew apart from her aunt and halted beside the fishpond. The mid-afternoon sun shimmered like molten gold across the surface. A distorted image of herself reflected in the depths of the water, lips slashing across her face in a thin angry line.
She forced a smile for Faridah. “I have a present for Father. Would you like to offer your opinion?”
Faridah raised an eyebrow. “Is this someone to tempt him away from the kadin?”
“Someone to remind him there are other women in the world.”
“Your father is very devoted to his lovers. For a time, he only loved your mother.”
“She was a princess, not a lowly slave. This new attachment is beneath him.”
Faridah shook her head. “That is your opinion alone. You are a Sultana, his eldest daughter. A mere slave can hardly be considered worth your attention.” She paused and bent beside the fishpond, scooping up some liquid in her gnarled hands. “Water is water. No matter how you contain it or change its form, water remains the same.”
She stood and took Fatima’s fingers in her grasp. “But I’ll see this gift, for which you’ve wasted precious coin.”
They went to the harem. Amoda greeted them. “Niranjan has come, my Sultana.”
Fatima asked, “Is there anyone else with him?”
“A slave girl also awaits you in your receiving room.”
Fatima struggled to suppress her smile. “Excellent, we’ll see them.”
A frown marred Faridah’s brow, but she said nothing.
They walked into the windowless room at the heart of the harem. Red cushions trimmed with gold brocade lined the walls. Niranjan rose and bowed. The petite woman beside him mimicked his actions. In her long opaque robe and damask veils, the folds of cloth hid her features.
Sultana: A Novel of Moorish Spain Page 18