Sultana: A Novel of Moorish Spain

by Lisa J. Yarde

  Fatima realized she dreaded that day. The thought of Muhammad on their father’s throne only soured her belly, when it should have given her great joy. She did not trust him.

  The slaves cleared the table and brought Muhammad his water pipe, which he declined. “Take it away. The smoke is bad for my sister’s health.”

  Fatima smiled with appreciation and rubbed her belly. Zuleika’s wistful look made her stop. Then, the slave girl swayed a little.

  Fatima drew back at the sight of Zuleika’s flushed skin. She asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “Suddenly…I am very hot.” The concubine removed her hair veil, the silky black curls underneath damp and clinging to her temples.

  Muhammad said, “You look unwell, my dear. Perhaps you should rest.”

  “Yes, master…I shall go,” Zuleika murmured, gripping the edge of the table while she tried to stand. Fatima screamed when she lunged forward, spewing the contents of her belly. She groaned, clutching her stomach.

  Recovering from the shock, Fatima grasped her brother’s arm. “She’s very ill. Call for a physician. Muhammad? Why are you just sitting there? Do something to help.”

  He stared at the jarya, transfixed for a moment. Then he turned to Fatima. “You should leave.”

  “But, Zuleika…there is blood in her vomit.”

  “Don’t worry for her. Come away, now, Fatima.”

  She could not turn from the sight of Zuleika’s horrid pain. Her brother hauled her up and deftly maneuvered her to the doorway, bellowing for his steward.

  Zuleika’s screams echoed from the dining room.

  Fatima insisted, “You must call for a doctor now, Muhammad!”

  He handed her off to his steward. “Take her.”

  A slave brought her cloak. “Please, brother, let me know how she fares on the morrow.”

  Muhammad disappeared into the dining area again.

  Fatima hardly slept. Each time she closed her eyes, she relived the horror of Zuleika’s expression contorted in agony. In the morning, she heard the awful news of the jarya’s death from Niranjan. He kissed her hands and sat across from her on one of a pair of carved stools.

  Fatima asked, “Does anyone know why she died?”

  “It is uncertain.” He took a cup of mint tisane his sister Leeta offered.

  “I don’t understand. Zuleika was fine throughout the meal. When she became ill, my brother, he seemed so shocked, he could not help her. No, it was not shock. It was like he waited to see what would happen.”

  Leeta muttered something under her breath before she turned to leave the room.

  Fatima called her back. “What did you say?”

  Leeta’s toes curled on the carpet. “He probably poisoned her, I said.”

  Fatima clutched her prayer beads. “What? Why would you say that? Zuleika was his favorite. She might have been his kadin if she’d ever borne him children.”

  “Maybe he got tired of waiting for her to do that.”

  “Leeta, stop! He may be a difficult man but my brother is no murderer! Besides, why poison a slave who could be sold away at profit?”

  Leeta said nothing further. Fatima looked to Niranjan, who sipped from the cup with his eyes averted. “Come now, you don’t also believe my brother would murder anyone. He could not. I was there, too.”

  When he said nothing, Fatima waved Leeta away. “Niranjan, you told me long ago that your father concocted poisons for his master, to kill his enemies.”

  “It’s true, my Sultana.”

  “If my brother poisoned Zuleika, how would he have done it?”

  He set the empty cup at his feet. “Most poisons have a bitter taste on the tongue. You need something sweet to hide them.”

  She gasped. “Like honey?”

  “Yes, like honey but sometimes it can also be used as a poison on its own.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father used to keep bees and grow oleander. When the bees pollinated on the flowers, their honey became very toxic. If someone ate large quantities of this honey, they would die. First, the victim starts to sweat and vomit. It causes great pain in the belly. There is some respite but that means the end is near. Then the victim thrashes around and dies.”

  While he spoke, she envisioned Zuleika’s distress.

  “If he did poison her, then my brother intended two victims that night. Zuleika started to feel ill after she ate those honey cakes. I remember now, Muhammad didn’t have any of them, but he urged me to try some.”

  Niranjan gaped openly. “Do you think he wanted to kill you, too?”

  Fatima gripped the khamsa charm dangling from her necklace. “He nearly succeeded. He tried to kill me and my baby!”

  Niranjan shook his head. “Calm yourself. Your agitation endangers the child.”

  “I have greater concerns.” Fatima sighed. “Don’t you see? I must tell Father. It would destroy him if he thought my brother capable of such crimes. I must ensure Muhammad never harms anyone else. Why would he have done such a thing?”

  “Does he need a reason to be cruel, my Sultana?”

  “No, but I cannot think that…could he have done it because I shall have a child and despite all his efforts, his women have borne him none? Could he be jealous of me?”

  “You shall never know, my Sultana.”

  The next day, Fatima went to her father’s apartments across the harem. Niranjan trailed a discreet distance at her back. Rows of myrtle trees bounded the olive wood doors. The Sultan’s bodyguards lined the walls around the courtyard. Fatima’s father and Muhammad stood beneath the shade of one tree.

  Fatima halted. Niranjan peered over his shoulder, his breathing rapt. “He’s come to spin his web of lies for your father. You’re too late.”

  Fatima shook her head. She would not allow him to get away with it. “Stay here, Niranjan.”

  “But, my Sultana….”

  “Do as I command! I must confront Muhammad.”

  She steeled herself for their encounter, her fingers closed into tight fists. As she approached, her brother glanced at her first. Their gazes held. A lazy smile slowly spread across his lips before the Sultan turned from him and looked at her, too. Their father crossed the distance between Fatima and him. He hugged her tightly.

  “God be praised, you are safe and well. Your brother told me you dined with him last night, when his slave was poisoned.”

  Fatima looked over his shoulder, her eyes still on Muhammad. He returned her stark gaze with a bemused expression.

  She drew back from their father and took his hands in hers. “How has it been determined that Zuleika died of poisoning?”

  Muhammad said, “Ayesha, a jealous slave girl conspired with my cook to rid me of Zuleika. They tainted the honey cakes.”

  Fatima clutched her stomach. “Not the same Ayesha that Father gave to you? Not the dancing girl from Sicily?”

  Their father nodded. “It is a regrettable end for any life. She brought it on herself.”

  Fatima glared at Muhammad. “What have you done to Ayesha and your cook, brother?”

  He dared to laugh. “What else happens to traitors, Fatima?”

  Her stomach soured. She had not brought the slave Ayesha to al-Andalus only to have her die at Muhammad’s cruel hands. She could not believe his guile or savagery. She truly did not recognize the man who stood before her. He was no longer her brother.

  Their father said, “Do not let Muhammad’s casual tone fool you. The loss pains him although he pretends otherwise. Stay and comfort him, Fatima, as only a beloved sister can. I must attend a meeting with the Diwan.”

  He kissed her brow and patted her rounded belly. With a nod to Muhammad, he left them. His bodyguards followed him.

  Fatima watched them go before she turned to Muhammad. “You may have fooled Father. I remain unconvinced.”

  Muhammad crossed his arms and leaned against the tree. A forelock of his dark hair fell over his glittering eyes. “Of what, sister?”


  “That you are not a murderer and a liar. You killed Zuleika, Ayesha and your cook to cover your own treachery. How could you have done it?”

  Muhammad shook his head. “Your pregnancy has addled your mind.”

  “Wretch! I can only thank God I have wits about me, wits enough to escape your plans for me last night. You intended to kill me, too, didn’t you? Are you so jealous that I shall give our father his next grandchild?”

  He came to attention. His mocking smile evaporated so swiftly, she might have imagined it had been there. “Careful, sister.”

  “Or, what? You’ll do to me what you did to Zuleika?”

  He sighed and left her.

  Her voice dogged him. “I know you, Muhammad, I see you for what you are. You can’t hide the truth forever!”

  Chapter 27

  A Prince of the Royal House

  Prince Faraj

  Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Shawwal 677 AH (Granada, Andalusia: February AD 1279)

  Faraj traveled with the camel caravan to Gharnatah and arrived at the capital in the morning. Sunlight filtered through a wispy cloud cover. The sure-footed beast that bore him climbed the steep slope of the Sabika hill and entered the precincts of al-Quasaba, just after dawn. The camel’s knees buckled and Faraj slid down from the animal’s back.

  He went to the Sultan’s harem, knowing his master to be an early riser. A bleary-eyed eunuch escorted him to the inner courtyard. Muhammad II stood beside a myrtle tree in the shade of the buildings. He smiled and beckoned Faraj, who then knelt before him with his head bowed.

  The Sultan said, “It has been long months that you have been away. I have missed your wise counsel.”

  “Master, the siege at al-Jazirah al-Khadra continues. I do not understand why you called me away. I’ve held the city as you commanded.”

  “Indeed, you have done so and I’m grateful. The city is the concern of others, for now. I summoned you home because you have concerns that lie here.”

  Faraj’s heart sank. On the journey home, he had feared the worst. Now, the Sultan confirmed it. In his absence, Fatima had gone to her father and insisted on a divorce. Even after their last night together, she still meant to abandon him. Obviously, her father had taken her side.

  He began, “Master, if you would let me explain.”

  Muhammad II shook his head. “There’s nothing to explain. Walk with me.”

  They stopped beside the pond in the courtyard. The Sultan took pieces of dried bread from a small silk satchel, throwing the crumbs to the waiting fish. “We have enjoyed mild weather in the capital this season, but I look forward to the coming months.”

  Faraj shook his head at the Sultan’s casual conversation. How could his father in-law be so nonchalant, if he meant to allow the divorce? How could Fatima do this? Did their love mean nothing to her?

  “You seem worried, Faraj. What is the matter? You have yet to ask after your wife.”

  “Is Fatima still my wife?”

  Muhammad II frowned. “Why would she be otherwise?”

  Faraj stared in silence, hardly comprehending his father in-law.

  The Sultan tossed the last of the breadcrumbs to the fish. “She mentioned yesterday, she would be speaking with your chief steward early this morning. Perhaps she’s awake already.”

  “Yes. She’s an early riser, just like you,” Faraj murmured. “But I don’t understand something. Didn’t she talk to you about us?”

  “She’s told me how much she’s missed you every day. She needs you here, not at al-Jazirah al-Khadra. She does not know that I summoned you, so she shall be surprised to see you. Go to her, I’m sure she’s longed for this day.”

  Faraj scrambled to his house. The Sultan’s rumbling laughter echoed behind him. At the inner courtyard, he slammed into a startled Marzuq, who fell backward.

  Faraj helped his steward up. “Where is she?”

  “Who, master?”

  “My wife!”

  “She is in the oratory, master,” Marzuq replied, a puzzled frown crinkling his brow.

  Faraj opened the door to the prayer room and stood just outside the threshold. Fatima knelt on the floor facing the window, a lavender and silver veil blanketing her. When she stood slowly, he crossed the room and touched her shoulder. Ignoring her shocked gasp, he hugged her. Then, he realized why he could not hold her close as usual. Her swollen belly jutted out.

  “You’re…pregnant.” The words seemed a foolish statement for what was so obvious, but he did not know what else to say.

  “I wanted to tell you, I swear I did, but I couldn’t do it in a letter. Then I feared you would never come home, because of what I said about wanting a divorce. I never wanted to leave you. I thought it was the only way you might have children.”

  He knelt before her, awed. His hands caressed the firm roundness of her belly. He kissed her stomach where the child lay quiet under his hands.

  She said, “I believe it must be a boy, I feel surer every day. He kicks so hard at times that I cannot sleep. But I love him already, as I love his father.”

  He stood and kissed her. “You understand if I choose not to divorce you now?”

  When she made no reply, he drew back. Her tears flowed freely.

  She pleaded, “Can you forgive me, my heart?”

  He traced a thumb across her quavering lips and kissed her tears away.

  Two weeks after his homecoming, at the wedding of the Sultana Alimah and the pirate chieftain from Maqurya, Faraj recalled his own marital ceremony. A Sultan officiated again, but this time Fatima’s father took the lead role. The chieftain, Abu Umar of al-Hakam, fidgeted in his white robe and looked like a frightened youth instead of a grown man, the same age as the Sultan.

  Faraj smiled at Abu Umar’s obvious nervousness and anticipation. In thirteen long years of his own marriage, he had known contention and contentment with Fatima. The arguments and misunderstandings paled in comparison to their mutual happiness, now soon to be complete with the arrival of their first child. He looked down at his hands, imagining them holding his son or daughter aloft.

  At the end of the wedding ceremony, the male guests wished the chieftain well. Immediately afterward, the marital feast began, as did the teasing about the impending nuptial night. Muhammad II introduced Abu Umar to his new family by marriage.

  A eunuch who hovered at the Sultan’s elbow interrupted the wedding and whispered in his master’s ear.

  The Sultan thumped Faraj’s shoulder. “Fatima has likely started her labor. Shams ed-Duna and my kadin have taken her to the birthing room in my harem. They have summoned the midwife. These things take time. The women can let us know how her labor progresses. You must not worry for her. The midwife shall arrive soon and Fatima is in the care of Shams ed-Duna, my kadin and my father’s wives.”

  “But what if she needs me?”

  “You cannot attend the birthing. No man should see such things. Be at ease, she and the child shall be well.”

  Faraj sat among the other guests and tried to appear jovial as before. The celebration lasted well into the afternoon. After he ate, musicians and dancing girls paraded between the tables but he paid them scant attention. The Sultan nodded to him and together they left the reception, while an enticing Syrian belly dancer held Abu Umar enraptured.

  As they walked, the Sultan said over his shoulder, “I am concerned that none of the women have sent word, as I know you must be.”

  Several of the royal women waited in the courtyard, including the bride Sultana Alimah, a vision of beauty in her gleaming, gold garments.

  Faraj asked her, “Has there been no word of Fatima or the child?” Alimah shook her head.

  Muhammad II spoke with a female slave who entered the courtyard. After she disappeared into the women’s quarters, the Sultan’s kadin came out and bowed.

  “Your daughter fares as best she can, my Sultan, but…there is a problem with the baby. The midwife says the child is not in the correct birth position. When the midwi
fe visited Fatima last week, she palpated her stomach. Then, the baby’s head was where it should have been. The child can be born with its legs and bottom first, but the midwife says it shall be difficult for Fatima.”

  Faraj’s heart fluttered inside his chest. “I don’t want Fatima to suffer. What’s this midwife going to do?”

  The Sultan and his favorite turned to him, wide-eyed. Nur replied, “Calm yourself. The child cannot be born without help. The midwife is very experienced. Fatima trusts her.”

  Faraj nodded. “With your permission, my Sultan, I want to see my wife.”

  Gasps of outrage and dismay echoed among the women, but he continued, “I cannot wait here, not knowing how she fares!”

  Muhammad II said, “Nur al-Sabah has told us what we need to know, Faraj.”

  “Still, I want to see Fatima.”

  The Sultan shook his head, but his kadin put her lily-white hand on his arm. “If my master would allow it, the princess might be happy to see her husband, for a moment. She tries to be brave but she is concerned for the child’s safety. She’s frightened.”

  Muhammad II mulled her words. “Faraj, if you promise not to upset my daughter, you may see her. When the midwife asks you to leave, do so without delay.”

  The kadin beckoned Faraj. Narrow steps led to the upper chamber. The occupants met his arrival with openmouthed expressions.

  Nur explained, “Prince Faraj has the Sultan’s permission to be here.”

  “Then bid him see his wife and be gone,” barked the old midwife, who knelt at Fatima’s side.

  Fatima’s stepmother hovered, patting her brow with a cloth. The widows of the former Sultan watched from the corners, as Faraj knelt and took Fatima’s hand. It trembled in his grip.

  Her voice wavered when she spoke. “Faraj…our son.” Tears cascaded down her cheeks and her lips trembled.

  He kissed her slim fingers. “He shall be well by the grace of our God. Do not be fearful, love, trust only in God.”

  The midwife removed the sheet and revealed Fatima’s engorged belly. Her palm flat on Fatima’s stomach, she studied the water clock across the room. Droplets fell in a steady interval, before Fatima gasped. Her abdomen tightened and rippled.