Sultana: A Novel of Moorish Spain

by Lisa J. Yarde

  “Something must be wrong.” She turned in the circle of his arms. “I asked Marzuq why your concubines don’t have children. He said they drink a special cup of tisane in the morning, but I do not. What explanation can there be for me?”

  He held her face in his hands, smoothing the moisture on her cheeks away. “Fatima, if you truly fear something prevents you from conceiving, let us consult a midwife.”

  “If she should find something is wrong, what shall we do?”

  “We shall try again. I want a baby born of our love, too. I believe when the time is right, God shall give us the children we want.”

  He kissed her soothingly but she responded with passion. Later when she finally dozed, a knock at the door stirred him. Fatima shifted when Faraj rose from the bed. Marzuq greeted him with an urgent summons from the Sultan.

  Faraj washed, dressed and went to the council chambers of the Diwan al-Insha, the mashwar, which was west of the throne room. In a stark chamber with two windows, a quarter of the size of the throne room, the ministers gathered in a tight circle around the Sultan. The men argued while their leader, the Hajib Ibn Ali, struggled for a voice above the fray. Umar, the Shaykh al-Ghuzat, entered the already crowded space along with some of the commanders of the Marinid regiments, the Volunteers of the Faith. He abased himself before Muhammad II.

  The Sultan waved him off. “No time for such nonsense, Umar. Now stand up, meet my eyes and tell me that you knew nothing about this breach at Malaka.”

  Faraj’s heart pounded. Who had invaded Malaka?

  Umar addressed Fatima’s father. “I swear upon the blessed ninety-nine names of our God, Sultan Abu Yusuf Ya’qub sent me no warning of his intention to take Malaka. Let me help you resolve this crisis.”

  Muhammad II said, “Then ride to Malaka. If the Marinid warriors there accept only your authority, I charge you with the task of entering that city and securing it for the Nasrids. By your actions, you shall prove whether my sentiments about you are misplaced. Those are my orders.”

  Umar sketched a stiff bow and departed with his officers.

  After he left the chamber, Ibn Ali said to his master. “The Shaykh al-Ghuzat is in an unenviable position. It is certain no man may serve two masters with faith. Do you trust Umar to secure Malaka in your name?”

  Muhammad II replied, “You and my honored father taught me to trust in no one, but our God.”

  While the Sultan spoke with his ministers, Faraj garnered an understanding of the events that had transpired from several, separate conversations occurring in the room. The governor of Malaka had suddenly fallen ill a month ago, which led to the suspicion that someone had poisoned him. By the Will of God, he had recovered. Fearing for the security of his city, Abu Muhammad had begged Marinid assistance to defend Malaka against Muhammad II. The Marinids agreed and intervened on behalf of the Ashqilula against the Sultan, their ally.

  The Sultan looked at Ibn Ali. “I wish to know two things. One - did we arrange the assassination of Abu Muhammad of Malaka?”

  Ibn Ali shook his head. “If he was poisoned, it is unlikely that any of our agents carried out the deed. Not one of them has been able to get close to him for years. The Ashqilula family has enjoyed success in rooting out our spies and agents, as we have theirs.”

  Thinking of Fatima’s role in these intrigues, Faraj knew that was not entirely true.

  Muhammad II frowned. “Regrettable. Now tell me this - what would we need to take Malaka? Have you and the minister of war assessed the men, the armaments, the weapons of siege we need?”

  Ibn Ali struggled with his speech. He offered the Sultan only a blank stare. The other ministers murmured among themselves or averted their eyes.

  Muhammad II pounded his fists on the chair. “As old women you are, cowering at the thought of such a venture when you should be planning my victory! Malaka has its weaknesses. We have but to find and exploit them. Assemble my commanders. We go to make war on the Ashqilula!”

  Faraj struggled to keep his face impassive. The governorship of Malaka, which had eluded him for so long – he did not dare finish the thought. His uncle the old Sultan had enjoyed no success in his half-hearted attempt to take the city. Why should his son fare any better? Especially when the Marinids had involved themselves and taken the side of the Ashqilula.

  Muhammad II dismissed his Diwan and gestured for Faraj to walk with him. “It is dangerous business we are about, cousin. In his youth, my late father preferred the solution of the sword, but in his later years, he used diplomacy to achieve his conquests. I rely on both the sword and words evenhandedly. Today, you shall serve as my diplomat but later, I may call upon your sword. I am sending you and my heir in advance of the army”

  Faraj replied, “I am your man, in whatever you may ask of me.”

  “Yes, I do not doubt that.”

  The Sultan’s cheeks reddened before he continued. “We have not always agreed upon my course of action, but your loyalty has remained steadfast throughout all our travails.”

  He referred to their argument during the conquest of Madinah Antaqirah. Smiling at him, Faraj said, “You shall always have my loyalty.”

  They adjourned to the Sultan’s chamber. Fatima awaited them in the ethereal glow of pre-dawn with her father’s Sultana at her side.

  Shams ed-Duna bowed before the Sultan. “Nur al-Sabah told me what has happened at Malaka. Is it for certain, husband? Is it truly my father who has done this thing?”

  Muhammad II answered, “It is certain, for who else could order Maghribi warriors to annex Andalusi soil, except your father? We have not heard of a coup in his capital. He remains in control of his government and the actions of his warriors.”

  The Sultana replied, “I don’t doubt you but I cannot accept that my father would do such a thing. How could he jeopardize the future of his own grandson and our happy union?”

  The Sultan took his wife’s slim dark hands in his olive-skinned, larger ones. “Nothing that your father or anyone else could do would alter our happiness, or the love I feel for our son.”

  While the Sultan spoke with his wife, Faraj embraced Fatima. “Why did you wake so early?”

  “I missed you beside me. Marzuq told me of my father’s summons. Then the Sultana Shams came to our house, seeking reassurances. She explained what she had heard.”

  Fatima’s father hugged his wife and kissed her hands.

  Faraj said, “It’s obvious the Sultana need not worry. Your father’s regard for her is secure.”

  Fatima nodded. “Yes, but he does not love her. She does not love him either. She has confided in me. They enjoy each other, yet he remains in love with the kadin.”

  Kissing her brow, Faraj murmured, “Return to our home, we shall talk later.”

  Fatima nodded and took Sultana Shams ed-Duna’s hand. They bid the Sultan farewell and retreated across the harem courtyard.

  Faraj observed, “Your wife seems a worthy woman.”

  Muhammad II nodded. “Shams ed-Duna ranks high among the best of women.”

  Princess Fatima

  In the midmorning, Fatima returned to her house. The screeching voices of her husband’s concubines echoed from the harem on the other side of the residence. Not an odd occurrence, but she could not recall when she had ever heard any of the women up before noon.

  She stood in the central courtyard, suffused in sunlight. With two years of hard work, she had transformed the large open space, which formerly held only a fountain at its center, into a replica of her father’s garden. Pale blue flowers, rosemary bushes, rows of crown daisies, star thistles, honeysuckle and spiny broom grew. In the center, a tiny pavilion replaced the old fountain. She hoped someday her children would take delight in playing in this place.

  Under the pavilion, she leaned against a marble column with a sigh. Children. The word filled her with such angst and fear. She palmed her belly, still as maiden-flat as when she had first made love to Faraj. Tears welled up in her eyes.

&
nbsp; The screams from the harem reached a crescendo, louder than before, if that were possible. She found the Nubian Hayfa and her counterpart, the little mouse named Samara tolerable. The concubine Baraka was not. Her eyes were like emeralds, green and hard.

  Fatima returned to her room. Leeta knelt, looking under the heavy bed frame and the multicolored carpet covering the floor, muttering to herself.

  Bemused, Fatima tapped her on the shoulder. “What are you doing, clucking like a worried mother hen?”

  “Remember your necklace of black opals? It is so long it reaches your hips,” Leeta replied in a voice strained with exasperation. “You wore it last week when you and the master dined with the Sultan and his wife. I saw it on your pile of clothing the next morning. I remembered telling my sister not to mix it in with the clothes she laundered for that day. Now, I cannot find it. I have looked under every fixture of this room. Your cedar closet, under the chest where you keep the other valuables from your bridal trousseau…everywhere, my Sultana.”

  Fatima tapped the gilded cage, where the kite trilled noisily. “Perhaps this fat bird swallowed it. She has been rather plump lately.”

  Leeta’s groans and sighs showed no appreciation for her levity.

  Fatima took her hand and helped her stand. “It’s only a necklace, one among several other pieces of mine. Do stop making yourself so frantic. The loss of a trinket doesn’t concern me.”

  She went to the window directly across the room. A cool breeze filtered through the lattice, stirring the lavender curtains. “I have greater concerns now.”

  Leeta joined her at the window. “What is it, my Sultana?”

  She unburdened her worries to the loyal servant who had been at her side for more than ten years. Her sympathy was palpable, but Leeta had doubts about her theories.

  “My Sultana, there is no reason to think you cannot conceive. Your menses are regular each month. There has been no change in your cycle since you began it five years ago.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Amoda records the days of your cycle. It is how she ensures we always have enough cotton bands for you to wear each month. In addition, Marzuq insists upon a strict accounting of all household linen since it is so expensive, including the purpose of ordering such materials. Amoda estimates how much cotton she needs for the use of harem women, including you, the concubines and all female servants.”

  Fatima blinked rapidly, somewhat embarrassed that her husband’s steward knew so much about her menstrual cycle. She said, “Faraj suggested we seek the help of a midwife.”

  “If you wish it, my Sultana. I shall make inquiries on your behalf, discreetly.”

  Fatima dismissed Leeta. Alone, she leaned against the adjoining wall, but someone knocked at her door.

  When she opened the door, Marzuq bowed. “Forgive the intrusion, my Sultana but I thought perhaps…my master’s women, they have been fighting for most of the morning.”

  She patted the steward’s arm. “I shall see to them.”

  His pale face lit up with grateful appreciation.

  The concubines lived in opulent accommodations with silken cushions lining the walls and brightly colored pillows strewn about the central chamber. Four separate apartments branched off from the main room, affording each jarya some privacy in her own sleeping space. Musk and sandalwood drifted through the open doorway.

  Baraka hurled a gilded tray across the room. Her aim was poor or she would have hit an outraged Hayfa square in the face. Samara cowered behind a cushion in the corner. The tray clattered to the ground.

  Fatima clasped her hands together. “Ladies, why disturb the peace of my husband’s house so early in the morning?”

  “I did not start this!” Hayfa’s voice thickened with insinuation.

  “Then who did?” Fatima looked between two alabaster faces and a dark one. All the women refused to answer her query. Baraka’s expression reddened with hauteur and menace.

  Then the Nubian shouted, “You should banish Baraka. She is nothing but a troublemaker!”

  Fatima turned to Hayfa. “Why do you suggest that? She is my husband’s property.”

  When none of the slaves replied, Fatima turned on Baraka. “Perhaps, I should tell my husband to sell you. Of his concubines, you are the most disagreeable.”

  “He shall never let me go! I am still the favorite.”

  “Truly? When was the last time he called you to his bed?”

  A small thrill of satisfaction settled in Fatima’s stomach. The murderous gleam in Baraka’s hard eyes bolstered her suspicion that Faraj no longer slept with any of them. He was often at Fatima’s side, even on the nights of her cycle when he simply held her and rubbed her back, easing her slight cramping.

  The little mouse hiding in the corner said, “Baraka is a jealous fool, jealous of you. That is why she stole your jewelry!”

  Fatima gasped but Samara did not stop there. “She knows the master loves you and always shares your bed at night. She took a necklace from your room last week. She said you would not miss it, but we told her to put it back.”

  “Bitch! I’ll kill you for betraying me.” Baraka advanced on her counterpart with outstretched hands.

  Fatima grabbed her and whirled her around.

  She struggled like a maniac. “Let me go. Barren cow! If you don’t quicken with his child soon, Faraj shall tire of you.”

  Fatima slapped her hard across the face. Baraka reeled from the blow and she cupped her reddened cheek.

  Fatima commanded, “Samara, fetch my necklace, you have nothing to fear.”

  When Samara returned with the black opals dangling between her fingertips, Fatima took the jewels and looked at Baraka. The concubine swallowed audibly.

  Fatima whispered, “There is a penalty for theft in Gharnatah. Under Sharia law, a thief’s hand is cut off.”

  A spasm of fear crossed Baraka’s face, though her chin jutted defiantly. Just then, Leeta’s voice resonated through the harem. “My Sultana, where are you?”

  “I’m here, with the jawari,” Fatima called over her shoulder, her gaze still on Baraka.

  Leeta entered the chamber. “Marzuq told me that you had come here but I couldn’t believe it. Oh, you’ve found your necklace! Where was it?”

  Fatima turned to her. “The only place you did not look – inside the chest with the other jewels. I have so many pieces, you could not have seen it buried among the others.”

  Leeta gaped pop-eyed, but Fatima dismissed the question in her gaze and held the piece up to the light. “In truth, I don’t like this very much. I brought it here in the hopes one of the women might like it. Baraka does. I believe she should have it.”

  Collective expressions of shock glazed over the concubines’ faces.

  Fatima continued. “It would be unfair to give Baraka something and not the other two. Leeta, bring the chest and I shall look for two more necklaces.”

  Leeta’s quizzical frown slowly faded as she bowed and left the room. Fatima held out the opals to Baraka.

  After some time, the jarya’s fingers closed on the necklace. “This changes nothing between us, Sultana.”

  Fatima clasped her hands together again. “I didn’t expect it would. I’ll keep the peace of my husband’s house by any means.” She paused and eyed each of the concubines in turn. “However, you should never mistake my kindness for weakness. You would not live long enough to regret it.”

  Chapter 24

  Stalemate

  Prince Faraj

  Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Dhu al-Hijja 676 AH - Muharram 677 AH (Granada, Andalusia: May AD 1278)

  The latest siege of Malaka had ended in a stalemate after only two months. On the seventh day of the month of Hajj to Makkah, the wearied and bloodied Sultan’s army walked and rode into Gharnatah, and up the Sabika hill. From the battlements of al-Quasaba, Fatima and her father watched their progress.

  Near the end of the cortege, two soldiers guided a horse-drawn cart. Inside, Faraj’s bo
dy lay prone under a white cloth.

  Fatima clutched her father’s hand. He squeezed hers in return. “My physician shall examine him. Do not fear for his life. He shall survive.”

  The Gharnati warriors brought the cart into the citadel. Fatima followed her father from the battlements down winding steps into the open-air courtyard. Panting, the team of horses slowed on command, their gray coats gleaming with sweat. They drew abreast just when she reached the last step.

  She reached over the side of the cart and touched her husband’s face. He was pale and beads of perspiration dotted his brow and cheeks. New growth sprouted from his unkempt beard. He moaned in a stupor, head lolling, the only signs that he still lived.

  Her father’s bodyguards hefted Faraj’s lean frame on the bier in the cart and carried him to the palace. At the Sultan’s command, the men laid him on their master’s bed. Her father’s personal physician waited to examine him. The doctor washed his hands in a ceramic bowl, the scent of rosemary rising up from the hot water. He lifted the sheet and revealed a yellow-tinged, putrid-smelling area near the groin. The flesh cracked at the edges. An Ashqilula swordsman had stabbed Faraj during the siege of Malaka. Fatima’s eyes misted but she held back a shuddering sob. Her father placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  The physician turned to them. “I’ll inspect the wound, clean and dress it. The pus has set in, because he did not receive treatment immediately. He burns with fever, another mark of the infection. Bloodletting may reduce it. The wound is close to the groin, but not life threatening. With care and medicine for the infection, he shall live.”

  Fatima asked, “What about poison? Is there a risk the blade that wounded him carried poison? The Ashqilula use such tactics in battle.”

  “Most poisons applied to a sword or an arrow act fast. He would have died. Now, I must tend to him without delay.”

  Her father drew her away. “Trust my physician.”

  Fatima nodded and followed him to the throne room, where the Diwan awaited him. She sat behind the latticed purdah with Shams ed-Duna and watched while her father gestured toward his Hajib, Ibn Ali.