“Yes, the pain is more intense now, which means your time draws nearer,” the midwife whispered. “This prince of the Nasrids shall be born soon.”
She glanced at Faraj. “My husband is a physician. He has shown me how to help birth a breech baby. This shall not be easy for your wife. It may not go as I intend. If one or both lives are imperiled, I may have to make a choice between the mother and the child.”
He shook his head. “There’s one choice for me. I can have other children, but I shall only have this woman for my wife.”
The midwife nodded and patted Fatima’s hand.
Sultana Shams ed-Duna said, “This is truly no place for a man, my prince. You should leave now. You would not want to remain.”
Fatima squeezed his hand. “Please…stay with me. Don’t go.”
He did not ask if she was sure, only glared at the other occupants of the room.
The midwife nodded. “If she wishes you to stay then you must help her.”
Fatima groaned as her abdomen tightened rapidly, signaling more intense pains. The midwife brought forward an ornately carved chair, with a large hole in the base. She examined Fatima again.
“My Sultana, you must prepare yourself. The head of a baby normally comes first. It is easier for the womb to expel the rest. The birth canal opens wide enough to allow the head to pass through, but a breech birth is different. It shall be painful, but you and the child shall live.”
Fatima nodded, licking her cracked lips. The Sultan’s kadin appeared at her side with an earthenware cup of water, from which she drank greedily.
Faraj kissed her hand again. “Know that I am here with you and our child.”
“Our son, remember? I promised you a son.”
“Yes, a son.”
Fatima’s lips trembled as she tried to smile through her tears. The midwife massaged her abdomen. She groaned and shuddered while the woman worked, but her gaze did not waver from Faraj. Each grimace and stifled cry stabbed at his heart.
Time passed slowly, the hours never-ending. The midwife warned birth was imminent. “We must move her before she becomes too weary to push.”
Faraj lifted Fatima to the stool at the room’s center. The midwife instructed him to kneel and support her with his arms. Her eyes closed, her head lolled against his shoulder. The kadin and Sultana Shams ed-Duna hovered beside them.
He whispered against his wife’s damp curls, “Love, you must ready yourself. Now is the time for our son to be born, our Ismail.”
“Ismail…for your honored father? Yes, that is…a good name,” Fatima replied in a hoarse whisper.
She labored tirelessly, while everyone urged her to push. The midwife aided her efforts and eased the child’s passage. Fatima looked weary and bloodied. Though delirious with pain, she kept up the struggle.
“Where is he? Why do I not hear him cry yet?” Fatima groaned weakly.
The Sultan’s kadin urged, “You’re not done. Push again with the next contraction.”
As Fatima expelled the contents of her womb, the baby’s loud echoing cry erupted.
The midwife proclaimed, “Here’s a fine son for you and the Sultana, Prince Faraj.”
Many emotions filled Faraj as his and Fatima’s child entered the world in a gush of fluids, just as sunset bathed the room in a fiery glow. When the midwife held the newborn up by the legs and cradled his head, Fatima laughed and cried all at once. A thin line of fluid streamed down his body. White paste covered his tiny form. The midwife tied a piece of red twine around the birth cord and severed it.
Moments later, the midwife laid the child on his mother’s belly. Fatima touched his head and Faraj covered her hand with his. The midwife took the newborn away for a moment, before she bathed and swaddled him.
She returned to Fatima’s side and gestured to Faraj. “Would you like to hold your son, my prince?”
The tiny bundle in his arms, Faraj stared in wonder at his son’s face. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he did not care that the women of the Sultan’s court saw. Then he remembered his duty. Love for the miracle of his and Fatima’s creation overwhelmed his heart, as he bent to whisper the Profession of the Faith and the Muslim call to prayer to the child.
Dressed in a new robe, Fatima rested on another pallet. He brought their child to her.
She opened her eyes at the same time her son did. Easing herself into a sitting position, she cradled him in the nook of her arm and kissed his fuzzy, dark-red hair.
Faraj smiled at their tiny family. “He is beautiful, just as you are.”
She took his hand and placed it on their tiny son’s chest. “He has your spirit inside him.”
“Ismail shall be like you, not me. I pray he may have all your good traits and none of my faults.”
She nuzzled their son gently, adoration glowing in her eyes. The midwife showed her how to nurse. “Hold your breast, with the thumb and index finger. Bring the baby up now.”
The midwife tickled the baby’s pink lips and he opened his mouth to close on the nipple.
Faraj sat behind them and kissed Fatima’s shoulder. “I have one regret about his birth.”
Fatima whispered, “What is that, my love?”
“I wish he had been born in our home, instead of the Sultan’s harem.”
“Why should that matter?”
“Only heirs to the throne have ever been born in a Sultan’s harem.”
Fatima gasped and clutched their child closer. “That can never be our Ismail’s fate. I’ll never allow it.”
Enraptured in the sight of their newborn, Faraj did not question the solemnity of her vow.
Chapter 28
The Victors
Prince Faraj
Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Rabi al-Awwal – Jumada l-Ula 678 AH (Granada, Andalusia: August – September AD 1279)
Six months after the birth of their son, Faraj and Fatima settled into their roles as parents of a healthy and bright baby, blessed with auburn hair and his grandfather’s eyes. They celebrated everything their son did as a major accomplishment. Neither of them could bear to be apart from him for too long.
On a late summer morning, they enjoyed the delicate beauty and the fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle in the garden courtyard. Amoda, whom Fatima appointed as governess, brought their son. “The little prince has something to show you!”
Fatima became alert, rising from where she languished with her head in Faraj’s lap. “Is he well?”
Amoda set Ismail, with his dimples and creased legs, on the marble. She left a distance of several paces between them. At her urging, he crawled across the floor.
Faraj scooped him up. “Crawling already! Soon, you shall walk. Then, you shall ride your first pony.”
“I think not,” Fatima said, deftly reaching for Ismail. “You and Father would have him defending the Sultanate and riding off into battle before he is a man. I want him safe at home with me, always.”
She kissed the squirming baby and held him close.
Then, the Sultan entered the garden with his the Crown Prince. “It is a blessed morning.”
Faraj replied, “Indeed. I trust you’re well and you also, Crown Prince Muhammad.”
The Sultan patted Ismail’s head and tickled his chin. “How is my fine grandson today?”
Fatima smiled. “He’s well, Father. He started crawling.”
The Sultan grinned. “We shall have him walking and then riding his first horse soon.”
Faraj looked at Fatima with a sheepish grin. She rolled her eyes.
Her brother scowled. “You’re feeding him too much, Fatima. Isn’t he getting fat?”
She said, “My son is not too fat, he’s in excellent health.”
Faraj frowned at her icy tone and the cold contempt in her eyes. What could have provoked such a reaction to her brother?
Muhammad held out his arms. “Let me hold my nephew.”
Fatima clutched Ismail closer. “It’s time for his nap. Please, excus
e us.”
She bowed and took the baby with her, Amoda in tow.
Faraj gaped in her wake long after she had gone. Then he faced Muhammad. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to offend you.”
“There’s no need for an apology.” Muhammad yawned, as if already bored. “New mothers are always overprotective of their children.”
The Sultan patted Faraj’s shoulder. “I’ve received a missive this morning of great importance. Let us talk in private.”
They went to the small antechamber. Faraj gestured for them to sit on the green damask cushions and summoned a slave to bring fruit and water.
While they waited, Muhammad II said, “Abdallah of Ashqilula, the brother of my late wife, has gone into a self-imposed exile. He fled to Jumhuriyat Misr this month, the land of the pharaohs and the pyramids.”
While Faraj reeled in astonishment, he continued, “More importantly, Abdallah took over fifteen hundred Ashqilula warriors with him, half of the men at-arms that supported the family. The loss of such a sizable force leaves our enemy vulnerable. Now, I intend to disperse my army and navy to attack every domain under Ashqilula control, save for one.”
Faraj waited for him to speak.
“We shall save the prize for last. Malaka.”
In the six weeks that followed, the Ashqilula defensive bastion of Wadi-Ash, close to the capital, fell first. Further south, Arsiduna capitulated and shortly afterward, the town of Lawsa surrendered. Within two weeks, the denizens of the cities of al-Hamma, al-Mariyah and even Qumarich revolted against their Ashqilula masters, who could not provide food or water with the Sultan’s siege engines battering at the gates. As the Sultan’s enemies ceded each territory, his army arrested and transported the chieftains and their families to Gharnatah, to hear the judgment of Muhammad II.
Faraj awaited their arrival in the throne room. He stood beside the Sultan. The chieftain of the Ashqilula, an aged Ibrahim with his eight sons in tow, led the defeated Ashqilula family. Where Ibrahim had once stood tall and proud, age had been unkind to him. He was a dried up husk of his former self, hunched and rickety with rheumy eyes and parchment-thin skin stretched over his skull. Thinning hanks of hair clung to his balding pate. Deep lines still scoured his complexion, mostly around the hollows beneath his eyes. He reminded Faraj of an old, beaten leather saddle.
Without preliminaries the Sultan stated, “Abu Ishaq Ibrahim ibn Abu’l-Hasan ‘Ali of Ashqilula, you have been declared an enemy of Gharnatah, by your acts of treason against the Sultanate. I owe you a debt of blood for the loss of one I loved, Ibrahim, but justice constrains me. As Sultan of Gharnatah, I am not above the reach of the laws I have decreed. Your blood shall not taint my hands. It is my command that you, all your relations and your supporters shall endure permanent exile from al-jazirat al-Andalus. Your sentence begins immediately upon the arrival of the rest of your supporters. Until such time, you and all your relations shall remain in the dungeons of al-Quasaba to await your transport to al-Maghrib el-Aska.”
Princess Fatima
Fatima sat behind the latticed purdah with Shams ed-Duna and Nur al-Sabah while her father pronounced his judgment. While she understood the rule of law, Ibrahim deserved death. She vowed he would not enjoy a comfortable exile outside of al-Andalus. Fourteen years later, her mother’s blood demanded justice and vengeance.
After guards led the Ashqilula family away, she left the throne room with little Ismail balanced on her hip and returned to her house.
“Fatima? Where are you, beloved?”
Faraj’s voice echoed across the expanse of the courtyard garden. As she approached, he strode through the evergreen leaves of the rosemary bushes. In the custom of men who had fathered children, he now wore a full beard, which he kept neatly trimmed. When he kissed her, the dark hairs on his chin tickled her cheek.
His almond-shaped eyes regarded her with open fondness. “You have a visitor.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to see anyone. Did you know my father was going to do that?”
His gaze faltered. “You mean the exile of the Ashqilula?”
“Yes! Although Ibrahim killed my mother, Father set him free! Father knows what she suffered at Ibrahim’s hands and he let him live!”
“Fatima, I did discuss the matter with your father before today’s proceedings. The Marinids offered asylum for the Ashqilula if your father promised not to harm any of them, even Ibrahim. The Sultan swore a sacred oath. Your father is the Lawgiver. He is rightly guided….”
“How can you say that? Would you let your father’s murderers escape? Would you?”
Ismail whimpered at her harsh tone and she hushed him.
Faraj sighed. “I would not, Fatima.”
“Then I have your permission to pursue my own course? You shall not hinder me?”
“Do as you must. Ibrahim deserves death. I caution you only to wait until after he has left al-Andalus. The Sultan would suspect too much if Ibrahim met his end here.”
Mollified, she kissed his cheek and he returned the gesture on her forehead. Ismail wriggled between the crush of his parents.
“Fatima, you must come with me to see your visitor.” When she protested, Faraj pressed his forefinger to her lips. “For once in our marriage, I would love the pleasure of my wife obeying me. Is that so much to ask?”
A playful gleam returned to his dark brown eyes. He beckoned her across the garden, opened the door to the antechamber, and motioned her inside.
Two sets of twin girls and a boy sat on the gold-striped cushions lining the base of the pale yellow stucco walls, their tiny toes barely skimming the plush multicolored carpet. A woman stood beside them, in a blue hooded cloak with a yellow circle sewn at the shoulder.
When she removed the hood, Fatima exclaimed, “Sitt al-Tujjar? Why are you here?”
Sitt al-Tujjar laughed. “When the Ashqilula surrendered, they sold off all their possessions. My agents descended on every marketplace in al-Andalus. I was fortunate enough to be at Qumarich to find Ulayyah’s children.”
Faraj added, “As before, she came to me first.”
“Your handsome prince is also very wise,” Sitt al-Tujjar interjected. “I remembered your, ah, history with the mother of these children, my Sultana. When I approached him, your husband offered to purchase the freedom of the little ones. He assured me that you would desire it.”
“These are Ulayyah’s children?” Fatima asked. “But where is she?”
The boy turned his face away. One of his sisters sobbed against his shoulder.
Faraj clasped Fatima’s arm. “She’s gone.”
“Gone? We must get her back, husband. It would mean so much to Halah.”
“Beloved, you misunderstand me.”
Sitt al-Tujjar drew closer. “After Abdallah turned traitor, Ibrahim took over his household. Ulayyah’s boy Faisal told me she tried to buy her children’s freedom. She had saved her money over the years for this one chance. Ibrahim strangled her. She is dead, my Sultana. The children saw it before they were sold away.”
Tears blurred Fatima’s vision. “It’s my fault she’s dead. Don’t you see? The money she had, it came from me. If I hadn’t paid her to spy on the Ashqilula, she would have never come to this fate.”
Faraj pulled her close and kissed her hair. “Don’t blame yourself. You could not have foreseen Ibrahim’s madness. It’s over now.”
Ulayyah’s son Faisal met her gaze with sad, wide eyes. She buried her face in her husband’s shoulder. Guilt tore at her heart.
Faraj said, “Let’s take them to your governess.”
Fatima nodded and knelt before the children. “You are safe. You are free. No one shall ever mistreat you or hurt you again. I know someone who shall be happy to see you.”
Chapter 29
Bittersweet
Princess Fatima
Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Rajab 678 AH (Granada, Andalusia: November AD 1279)
As the coolness of autumn winds swirled around them, Fa
tima stood with Amoda at the entrance of the house. Faraj cantered his horse in a circle with his son on his lap. Ismail chortled and waved his chubby arms in the air. When they came around again, Faraj slowed the horse and handed down the baby to his governess.
Fatima asked. “Is he not too young for horses?”
Faraj slid from the gelding’s back easily, since his legs nearly dangled to the ground. “It’s never too early for a prince of the Nasrids to study his horsemanship.”
Amoda said, “I shall take Prince Ismail in now, my master.”
Before Amoda left, Fatima kissed her son’s little hands covered in woolen mittens. When he giggled, she could not resist another kiss on his pink cheeks. Amoda disappeared into the house with him on her hip.
Faraj took Fatima’s hand. “I met with your father. We leave tomorrow for Malaka.”
She nodded. He led her to a marble bench beneath a swaying date palm. “There’s something I must tell you, beloved. It is something I have never spoken of to anyone else.”
They sat together. After a weary sigh, he asked, “You remember the story of my parents’ deaths?”
“Yes, I have always remembered what you told me.”
Her heart ached for him, that he must now confront the ghosts of his past in Malaka. She sensed his thoughts were far away, as he stared at the ground.
“I’ve told you of the night they died, but never fully shared how I felt, my emotions on that night, how their deaths changed me forever. I became a different person, unfeeling, conniving. Vengeance ruled my heart. All I ever wanted was to reclaim my birthright. I did not care about anything or anyone else. Not my half-brother or my sisters, not even myself.”
She touched a finger to his trembling lips. “My heart, anyone can understand how hard it must have been for you, barely ten years old. To have seen what you saw…it would have altered a man, much less a young boy.”
“I remember how it was before, when we were happy. I used to ride along the shore with my father once a week. He trained my half-brother and me to use the sword and the bow.”
She sighed while he spoke of the happy life he had at Malaka, even with the rivalry between he and his half-brother.
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