Sultana: A Novel of Moorish Spain

by Lisa J. Yarde

  The Prime Minister said, “We have made contact with al-Hakam pirates at Mayurqa, my Sultan. Their representative shall meet with us in ten days’ time.”

  Fatima turned with a puzzled frown to Shams, who put a finger over her lips in a bid for quiet.

  Ibn Ali continued, “Forgive me, my Sultan, but we are uncertain about your intentions. How can the clan of al-Hakam, the rulers of a tiny island in the White Sea aid us in a war against the Marinids?”

  The Sultan answered. “I do not intend to declare war against them.”

  Muttering and grumbling rose to fill the room. He called for silence.

  He continued, “The Marinids are powerful. I cannot risk open warfare against them. Along the frontier of their eastern border with al-Tunisiyah, they have adopted a defensive posture to counter Hafsid raids for nearly a year now. Most of their army is concentrated there, with other regiments in the capital and on the coast. I need to convince Sultan Abu Yusuf Ya’qub that he cannot hold the ports of al-Andalus when his own domestic situation requires attention.”

  Understanding filled Ibn Ali’s gaze. “That is why you enlist the clan of al-Hakam, my Sultan? You shall use the pirates to harass the Marinids at their home bases.”

  The Sultan nodded. “The pirates of Mayurqa have plagued the coasts for years. Abu Yusuf Ya’qub’s treaty with Aragon nearly ended their raids, as he could rely upon his allies in Aragon with their ships to defend the White Sea coast. Now the treaty is over and the pirates have returned. They do not care who they raid. They fight for anyone who pays them the most. If they attack the Marinid Sultan in force, he must recall his warriors to defend his port cities. He cannot risk leaving the capital undefended. He cannot pull back his warriors from the borders of al-Tunisiyah. Instead, he must recall the Marinid forces he has garrisoned at Malaka.”

  Ibn Ali said, “The pirates are ruthless turncoats. What can stop them from eventually attacking us?”

  The Sultan smiled wryly. “God has truly blessed me with many daughters. I shall offer the chieftain of al-Hakam my third daughter Alimah for his bride. I shall gain a pirate for my son in-law, but also ensure the protection of my country.”

  The council members murmured their approval.

  After he dismissed the Diwan, the Sultan crossed the chamber and went behind the lattice purdah. He helped his Sultana and Fatima stand.

  Shams ed-Duna said, “My father has agents in Gharnatah. You must move your forces with discretion and speed if you hope to surprise the Marinid warriors.”

  The Sultan kissed her brow. “Everything shall happen according to our plan. You must believe, whatever happens, you and our son shall be safe. Your father shall never know it is your dower that finances the pirates at Mayurqa.”

  Shams ed-Duna nodded. “It matters little to me. You are my husband. A wife owes her duty to her husband, not to a father who would break oaths with his sworn ally or endanger his family through his treachery. You have my loyalty, my Sultan.”

  He raised her hand to his lips. “Truly, you are the best among wives.”

  Fatima smiled at their easy accord. Linked arm in arm with Shams ed-Duna, they followed the Sultan from the throne room.

  In the following three weeks, Faraj recovered from his wound. When Fatima insisted he keep to his room and rest, he resented it. He chafed at taking sponge baths, rather than relaxing in the warmth of the hammam and complained about how much he missed riding his horse through the gorges and valleys of the capital every day.

  When her father’s physician visited, he seemed pleased with Faraj’s progress. The doctor told Fatima her husband was well enough to resume most of his normal activities that did not require great exertion. Though he walked with some stiffness on his left side, Faraj healed. Laughter and passion filled Fatima’s bedchamber at night, as she took the lead in their lovemaking.

  Towards the end of the month, Amoda came to Fatima with a wide smile. “You’re late.”

  A giddy chortle escaped her lips. She held out a series of bound parchments. Turning to the last page, she said, “See the notations for the month of Dhu al-Qa`da? Here was the first day of your last menses. I have been tracking your cycle for five years. For the first time, you’re three days late.”

  Understanding dawned. Fatima palmed her belly. “Do you think it is possible? I could be pregnant?”

  Amoda nodded and laughed as Fatima hugged her.

  Five days passed where she spun fantasies of what her baby would look like. Would it be a boy or a girl? She nursed her tiny secret, offering silent prayers to God. If Faraj noticed her improved mood, he did not comment. He seemed very happy to have her smiles by day and caresses at night. Her secret remained hidden.

  At the end of the week, she awoke and leaned on one elbow to watch dawn’s light play on Faraj’s face while he slept. He opened his eyes and caught her staring.

  He nuzzled her cheek. “Was I snoring like you do?”

  “You were snoring, but that’s not why I was staring. Do you know how handsome you are?”

  “You’re in a playful mood this morning. You have been for days now. I should stay here with you all day instead of meeting with your father and brother.”

  “You told me Father wanted to discuss the recent Castillan naval movements off the coast. You should see him. I’ll be waiting for you when you come back.”

  His warm kiss entreated her consideration but she gave him a light push out of the bed.

  Leaning back into the familiar comfort of her pillow, she admired his lean, hairy legs as he walked away. Yet, she could not linger in the bed anymore than Faraj could. She had arranged yesterday to meet with Marzuq for a weekly review of household accounts. She stood, stretched her arms above her head and then froze as a familiar dull ache tugged at her back. Instantly she knew there would be no child.

  “My Sultana, are you awake?”

  Leeta’s voice drifted beyond the doorway. Fatima blinked back tears and composed herself. “Enter.”

  “Good morning, my Sultana, I hope you slept well.” Leeta’s voice trailed off.

  “I did. Thank you.” Fatima’s hand on her empty belly shook. Her mind screamed denial. A tiny frown marred Leeta’s face, but Fatima did not have the heart to share her disappointment with anyone. She had harbored so much hope for such a fleeting thing.

  How could losing something she never had cause so much pain?

  On the first of Muharram, Fatima attended her father’s gathering in the palace gardens, Music and children’s laughter filled the air. Mothers chided rambunctious older children and soothed fussy, younger ones. Shams ed-Duna and the kadin’s children played together, laughing with their plump baby arms held out to their mothers. Shams ed-Duna balanced her son on her hip, twirling around while he giggled. The kadin stood next to Shams ed-Duna, helping her eldest daughter Zaynab on to a child-sized, wooden horse, festooned with a silken, padded saddle. Zaynab kept sliding backward on the colorful material whenever Nur al-Sabah left her unattended.

  When Shams ed-Duna set her little prince down, on pudgy legs, he ambled to where the kadin’s second daughter Fayha sat with Fatima’s youngest sister, Nadira. She spun a brightly colored metal top for the younger children’s amusement. Nur al-Sabah looked on, stroking the rounded bump underneath her robe. Her two daughters, Zaynab and Faridah, were the mirror image of their mother with wavy blonde hair and her eye color.

  Pain knifed through Fatima’s heart. After consultation with many midwives, none could find the cause for her failure. She stared at the children, wishing desperately for one of her own.

  Faridah took hesitant first steps, moving very unsteadily toward Fatima. She tugged at her skirts and stared, two fingers in her mouth. The kadin reached for her.

  Fatima said, “Truly, I don’t mind. She is very beautiful. She does not look like Father. Only his children with my mother resemble him.”

  The kadin sat nearby with her daughter on her lap. “I believe, Sultana Fatima, this is the first time you
have acknowledged my daughter.”

  Fatima nodded. “She’s a sister to me, Zaynab too. At first, I resented them. How could I feel that way about any child? Especially, my own sisters.”

  She turned to Nur al-Sabah. “May I hold her?”

  The kadin placed Fayha in Fatima’s lap. The child gingerly pressed her fingertips to Fatima’s nose and then her lips. Fatima playfully nipped at her chubby fingers and her little sister chortled, showing two budding upper teeth. Then Fayha poked at Fatima’s eye. Nur al-Sabah snatched her away. “Naughty girl!”

  Pools of tears welled up in the child’s eyes. Nur al-Sabah summoned her body slave, who took a whimpering Fayha away. Fatima swiped at her eyes.

  The kadin said, “I’m sorry, my Sultana.”

  Fatima sniffled and patted Nur al-Sabah’s left hand. “Please, she’s just a child, she didn’t know better. You are very lucky to have her and her sister.”

  Nur al-Sabah slid her fingers from under her grasp and covered Fatima’s hand instead. “Motherhood is a great joy, my Sultana. One day you shall come to know it. Believe, for God hears and answers all prayers.”

  A tear trickled down Fatima’s cheek. “What if His answer is no?”

  Fatima and Faraj returned to their house in the late evening. While he bathed, Amoda prepared her for bed. A shawl around her shoulders, Fatima walked to her bedroom window, overlooking the garden. She flung the lattice open.

  Behind her, Faraj said, “Beloved, please close that window. The torches die down too early in the wind.”

  His arms slipped around her waist, his fingers interlaced with hers, pressed against her empty belly. “Your hands are icy. Come to bed and let me warm you tonight.”

  When she turned around, the smile on his lips faded. “Beloved, what troubles you?”

  “We cannot remain married any longer.”

  He paled and stared without blinking.

  She pushed at him. “Did you hear me? I want our marriage dissolved. It is finished.”

  His arms dropped to his side.

  “I love you too much to consign you to a childless union with me.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Our marital contract states if you take another wife, I can divorce you and reclaim my dowry. You should not suffer because of me. If you tell Father you’re divorcing me because I am barren, you can keep the dowry and find a wife to give you the sons and daughters you want.”

  He gripped her arms and shook her. “What are you saying? You think I would let you go because of your foolish fears?”

  “You refuse to accept the truth. I cannot give you children and if I cannot do so, my heart shall break along with yours. Who would know you lived if you have no sons, no children to inherit? I won’t condemn you to that fate.”

  He released her, panting with exertion. “So, you would leave me instead?”

  She took his hand. “No, I give you a chance at happiness.”

  He pulled away. “Who says I am unhappy? That is your claim! In your usual manner, you make a decision that affects both our lives and expect me to follow it. Well, I won’t, not this time.”

  “I won’t change my mind. I want a divorce!”

  His dark eyes bored into hers. “You must be mad to think I would ever let you go!”

  He crossed the room. The bedroom door slammed shut behind him.

  She sank on the carpet and buried her head in her hands.

  Chapter 25

  A Great Divide

  Prince Faraj

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

  Faraj avoided Fatima until the next evening, when the moon rode high in the moonlit heavens. Jasmine flowers scented the air as the sentries called the hour of midnight. He returned to his house, carrying a rolled parchment bearing the Sultan’s seal, the red wax thick like congealed blood.

  The Castillan navy had attacked the port city of al-Jazirah al-Khadra. The Shaykh al-Ghuzat Umar defended the city and needed reinforcements. The Sultan gave Faraj command of three cavalry detachments. The men were to ride at dawn and re-take the port.

  Marzuq greeted him at the door. Weary, he decided to forgo the hammam and went to his bedchamber. He plodded across the darkened room. In the bed, he rolled on his side.

  “Faraj, what happened? You’ve been gone all day.”

  Fatima’s voice filled the chamber. Her hand alighted on his arm. “I feared you would not come to me again. I waited for you.”

  Groaning, he rolled away. “If you wish to speak the same nonsense, I refuse to listen to more foolishness.”

  When she sighed, he continued. “Go back to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “No, tell me what’s happened. I know you were…upset with me last night. Then, Marzuq said my father called you to his side this morning. Please, talk to me.”

  Sighing, he swung his legs to the floor. When he told her of his orders, she moaned as if in pain. “Must we be apart again?”

  He sucked in a breath at her familiar touch. “You ask that when you wanted a divorce just last night?”

  She sobbed. “I’m afraid.”

  He shook his head, wishing himself immune to her moods. “You must not fear, Fatima. I shall be safe. Umar defends the citadel along the beachhead against the Castillan siege. With reinforcements, al-Jazirah al-Khadra shall hold.”

  Her head drooped on his shoulder, her fingers threading in the wiry wisps of hair on his chest.

  He closed his eyes and inhaled the fragrant jasmine that infused her hair. “You should go to your chamber.”

  “Don’t send me away now, not when we need each other. I only want to be with you tonight.” Her fingers curled at his waistband.

  “You think making love can solve the problems between us?”

  “Faraj, please do not do this. Don’t turn from me now.”

  “Me, reject you?” His reply echoed in the darkness of the room. “You come to me demanding a divorce last night and now, accuse me of rejecting you? You have hurt me more deeply than anyone could. Still, my love for you burns brighter than the sun. You cannot stay here tonight, you should not have come.”

  “Would you ride out in anger, not knowing when we shall see each other again?”

  He turned and hauled her up against him, shaking her. Her anguished cry stopped him. “I love you, Faraj. I have only ever loved you. Can’t you see that I’d do anything for love of you, even leave you, so you might have your heart’s desire?”

  “You are my heart’s desire!”

  He kissed her wildly, a need to punish her spurring him on. She encouraged his savagery. When his teeth nipped at her jaw line, her moans reverberated through the room. When he pinned her beneath him, she welcomed him. Her limbs held him prisoner and her nails raked his back and arms, demanding. Their joining was a fiery death, both of them consumed.

  In the morning, he went to the hammam. He winced when the fragrant water stung tiny cuts on his arms and back. Fatima had drawn blood in her passion. When he returned to the chamber, she was awake and helped him with his garments. He kissed the hands that had tortured and wounded him the night before, while she stared in silence.

  He whispered, “Too often we’ve stood upon this point already. I leave you to wonder what shall become of me. Keep the peace of my house. Know that I love you and believe that I shall return to you, always.”

  Fatima nodded and embraced him, her soft sobs muffled in his padded tunic. He kissed her with all the love inside his heart and let her go. He did not look back, lest courage fail him.

  Princess Fatima

  Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Safar 677 AH (Granada, Andalusia: July AD 1278)

  Fatima endured seven weeks of bitter silence, during which she received no word from Faraj. Her father shared the daily dispatches on the reclamation of the port at al-Jazirah al-Khadra and the defense against the Castillans. Still, no word arrived of her husband’s fate. She retreated into a shell of suffering, filled with self-recrimination. The remembrance o
f his final words offered little comfort in the emptiness of her bedchamber at night.

  On the first cool day of the summer, Sultana Shams ed-Duna insisted she accompany her and the kadin Nur al-Sabah to the souk of Gharnatah. Her stepmother refused Fatima’s initial rebuff.

  After prayers, the trio, in the company of Niranjan, the palace guard and some servants, took the route down the Sabika hill and across the bridge of the Hadarro River. The Qaysariyya marketplace spread across the dun-brown plain at the south of the city, extending from the foot of the Sabika hill to the red brick walls of Gharnatah. Jewish and Christian merchants plied their trade alongside their Moorish counterparts, the local goldsmiths, armories, shoemakers, blacksmiths and textile makers.

  The Sultan’s guards jostled everyone and made a clear path for the women. Fatima shrank from the resentful gazes of those displaced by the guards’ rough handling. She kept close to Shams ed-Duna and Nur al-Sabah, who doggedly haggled with the market sellers, while their slaves idled alongside the narrow streets and alleyways. Merchants offered slaves from faraway lands, bartering away their lives as easily as the silk, leather goods, brocades, ivory and olive oil sold in the souk.

  The stench of piss and offal in the streets vied with ambergris, musk and incense from a nearby stall. Fatima gripped her stomach, as a wave of dizziness overcame her.

  The kadin frowned at her. “Are you unwell?”

  “I hadn’t expected it to be so crowded, or smell so bad.”

  “Look, it’s a symbol of the Nauar.” Shams pointed to a burnished copper wheel dangling from a tent post under a faded, blue awning. “I have not seen one since I left Fés el-Bali.”

  Nur al-Sabah peered over her shoulder. “Hmm, the Gypsies. Is it true they foretell the future?”

  Fatima shook her head. “What nonsense they must teach in Christian households. The Nauar speak only in riddles to confuse and delude the mind.”

  Shams asked, “How can you be so certain? Have you ever been to one?”

  Fatima replied, “I wouldn’t dare. Sorcery and divination is the work of the court astrologer. Ask him anything you would like. I’m sure Father wouldn’t object.”