“I was so ashamed of my parents,” he whispered, pausing to draw breath before he continued, “ashamed of them for dying as they did. I decided, right there in our ruined home that I would never be like them. I would never submit to fate. For many years, I could not forgive them for what they had let happen to them. The guilt I have felt has burdened me. My parents’ blood cries out for justice, Fatima. When I killed Doñ Nuño, I thought the pain would have lessened. His death was a hollow victory, bittersweet. I won’t feel I’ve honored my parents until the real culprit is dead.”
Fatima’s heart wrung with pity at the sight of his face, twisted now in anguish.
He knelt before her and cupped her pale hands in his dark olive ones. “Your father has offered exile to the Ashqilula. Abu Muhammad cannot join them. He must pay for what he did to my family. Then, I shall feel as though I have truly avenged my family and our losses.”
“Please, Faraj, the Sultan’s justice awaits him. I know your heart rebels against it, but you must accept and let justice prevail. I want Abu Muhammad dead too, but do not risk your life to kill him. We must wait for another opportunity.”
“How can you say so? You have told me nothing further, but I know you and your eunuch are plotting the demise of Ibrahim. Why should he suffer alone? Abu Muhammad shall join him in death, at my hand.”
“The life of Abu Muhammad is meaningless compared to yours.” She lifted his fingers and kissed them. “Do not risk it for vengeance’s sake. Would you see your son orphaned and your wife made a widow? My father shall surely kill you if you disobey him. Do not do it, please. Let my father’s soldiers take him. We shall deal with him afterward.”
The next morning, Fatima held her son in the garden courtyard while they awaited Faraj. The household servants gathered behind them. The Sultan’s army prepared to leave Gharnatah for Malaka.
Faraj approached in his long shirt of black chain mail and his brass helmet, the nose-guard obscuring his features. Ismail whimpered at the sight of him and turned away, bawling.
“He doesn’t recognize you,” Fatima said. “He’s never seen you in armor.”
He removed the helmet and kissed their son’s dark auburn hair. Ismail fussed and Amoda took him on her hip. Fatima drew her husband away.
He hugged her. “I’ve asked you too many times to wait here for my return.”
“It’s no more than the burden you bear. I shall pray for your safekeeping. Please, remember what I have said about Abu Muhammad. You cannot go against my father’s will. The exile of the Ashqilula chieftains must be enough for both of us now. When the time is right, we shall each have true justice for our parents.”
He embraced her again in silence. With a kiss on her brow, he left her.
Fatima stared long after he had gone. “God be with him. God be with them all this day.”
Prince Faraj
The army of Gharnatah rode across the craggy, rocky headland of al-Andalus, its wide brown plains and the dried remnants of orchards. A strong morning breeze from the sea came ashore. Malaka rose above the landscape in the distance. Restless, Faraj’s mount pranced beneath him.
Under the shade of a fig tree, he reached up for a shriveled lump, peeled back the skin and bit into it. As a child, he once played with his father’s pages among the fig groves planted around the citadel. He wondered whether the Ashqilula had maintained the grounds as he remembered. He wondered whether his half-brother thought Malaka looked the same as in their childhood. He glanced at him furtively.
His half-brother led a cavalry detachment today. Surprised to see him, Faraj had questioned his presence. In response, his half-brother shrugged.
The Crown Prince ordered the sounding of the battle horns. “They’ve expected us for weeks, enough time to mount a resistance against our siege.”
Faraj turned from glaring at his half-brother. “Why not sue for the terms of a peaceful surrender first? Abu Muhammad has no more support. He can’t hope to defend the city against siege weapons.”
The Crown Prince shook his head. “Who knows what he may expect? Besides, what is the fun in a peaceful surrender? There would be no glory for us, eh?”
Some of the commanders around him yelled their assent and rattled their weapons, but Faraj did not join them. “If you attack Malaka with siege weapons, you’ll destroy Al-Jabal Faro. It is an important bastion on the coast. Your father wants those defenses maintained.”
The Crown Prince’s scowl descended. “Father’s not here yet you think only of his commands. Fine. Send a herald to sue for this damnable peace.”
Flying the white flag of peace, their courier rode across the plains toward Malaka. When he returned, his face seemed glazed in shock. “They’ve surrendered.”
The Crown Prince raised his hand, ready to direct the commanders and their regiments forward.
“No! I have seen Ashqilula treachery at Madinah Antaqirah,” Faraj cautioned. “They pretended to surrender to the Sultan and then tried to cut him down. No, if the Ashqilula have surrendered, they should send out Abu Muhammad.”
“Faraj is full of advice today,” his half-brother commented dryly. Faraj scowled at him but vowed one day to settle the discord between his half-brother and him.
The Crown Prince sent the herald to the gates again. The messenger returned an hour later. “Great prince, they say they are ready to admit defeat, but they cannot surrender the governor to you. They say he is gone. No one saw him leave, not even his own family, but he is nowhere in the citadel or the governor’s castle.”
Faraj cursed and slapped his thigh. “Gone? Abu Muhammad would never just leave the city like that! It must be a trick.”
“We take the city,” the Crown Prince said. “Faraj, you were born here. You know Malaka best. Find that rat, Abu Muhammad and root him out!”
Faraj glanced at his half-brother, who colored and looked away, reddening with vexation.
The gates of the city creaked open. The army rode into a desolate scene. A lone dog ambled down the deserted street, nosing for scraps. Two shopkeepers peeked out from behind their stalls before hiding again. The battlements were empty, masonry crumbled at the foot of the walls. A few guardsmen idled at the gatehouse.
Faraj took a portion of the cavalry in his command with him. In the center of town, they rode up a steep slope, passing into the inner sanctum of the city. Whitewashed homes with thatched roofs perched on the sides of road, the domiciles of Malaka’s poorer residents. Cobblestone streets led them further up the summit, to the marble homes of the city’s khassa, whose noble estates dotted the hillside. There were hardly any people around. Those few they saw fled indoors and bolted their gates or doorways.
He approached the first of the military fortifications built at Malaka, at Al-Jabal Faro. Its rectangular towers flanked massive, protective walls. The guards at the site surrendered quickly. The governor’s castle loomed behind towering palms. He ordered the Ashqilula guards jailed in its depths and moved on to the estate where he was born.
Under the shade of dense pine and eucalyptus trees, he rode through the double bent entrance that existed since his childhood. Beyond that, the gates gave access to beautiful, if somewhat overgrown, gardens that surrounded the estate. Worn bricks glinted golden-brown as the sun beat down upon them. Two men guarded the entrance.
One of them said, “Our mistress Sultana Faridah bids you welcome.”
Faraj cut him off with a dismissive wave. “Arrest them also.”
Dismounting, he drew his sword. Sultana Faridah, mother of Abu Muhammad, waited under the archway. Her gray hair, unveiled, billowed in the sea wind. Her once clear sea green eyes met his, the opaque orbs murky and filled with tears.
“You’ve come to kill me, Prince Faraj?” she asked in a wavering voice.
He shook his head and dropped the tip of the sword into the sand.
She continued, “It is only me here now, the rest of my family has fled.”
“Where is your son?”
The a
ged princess shrugged. “I do not know. I have not seen him for days. He did not leave with my daughters by marriage or my grandchildren. I believe he is hiding, in this place.”
Over his shoulder, he said to the guards, “Search this place. He is here.”
Dried leaves blew around the windswept courtyard. He struggled to recall this barren place as it once was.
Suddenly, Sultana Faridah approached him. “How does Fatima fare? Is she happy?”
Puzzled by her attempt at polite conversation, he replied, “She’s at home with our son.”
“Good. Tell her that I said goodbye.”
She disappeared in a flurry of black garments. He followed, but she kept ahead of him in the maze of the house. Her laughter beckoned. He surged forward and emerged in daylight again, out on to a belvedere overlooking the sea. He looked up the heights of the wall. The windows of his childhood nursery faced on the belvedere. More than twenty years ago, he had last seen his father alive here with his kadin Butayna.
The Sultana stood precariously on the ledge. The sharp drop below came to an abrupt end. Rocks and the battering waves of the sea met the belvedere.
Faraj extended his hand. “Sultana Faridah, come with me to Gharnatah. You can stay with Fatima and me.”
She shook her head. “No, I do not think so. My days are at an end, as is my son’s reign over Malaka. What reason do I have to remain in this land?”
She stepped back and plunged over the ledge. Waves crashed and broke against the sharp stones below.
The guards had searched the governor’s castle, finding no trace of Abu Muhammad. Clenching his fists, Faraj demanded they keep looking. He leaned against the wall behind him, still in shock at the Sultana’s suicide. Then he looked up again, past the windows of the old nursery to the upper stories. He remembered the storeroom above the nursery where he had hidden as a child.
Gripping his sword, he entered the castle again. He took the steps slowly. Yet his lungs felt as though they were on fire. He emerged at the uppermost story, an open space where his father’s steward once kept provisions. Crates lined the walls. Here, his mother had hidden him and his siblings for protection on that terrible night. He crept forward, drawing the dagger from his belt and raising his sword.
“Come out, you murderer. I know you’re hiding here like the coward you are.”
Abu Muhammad, the last of the Ashqilula governors, scrambled from behind a tall stack of crates with a crossbow in hand. He stood the same height as Faraj, though much older with his graying hair. His fiery, golden brown gaze marked him as a predator. Like an old lynx sensing the end, he would never surrender without a fight.
“Come to die, whelp?” His deep baritone resonated throughout the room.
Faraj gripped his dagger tighter. “Haven’t you learned yet, in all your attempts at treachery that I do not die easily?”
Abu Muhammad’s gaze narrowed. “I’ll take care of that now.”
“You should have dealt with it twenty-one years ago! You put a nine-year old boy and his siblings through a night of terror, by your treacherous dealings with the Hud and the Lara family. You should have killed me then, along with my father and mother. I know it all now!”
“I had no hand in Leila’s death! She was my kin.”
“After your henchmen raped my mother, she didn’t want to live. You killed her, as surely as if you had plunged the knife into her heart!”
Emboldened, he advanced. Abu Muhammad sent a bolt whistling past his ear. Faraj’s dagger sailed across the room, plunging into his enemy’s chest. The chieftain tumbled backward with the force of it, sprawled with his hands outstretched.
Faraj towered over his adversary. Disappointment filled him at the positioning of the dagger. He had not delivered a mortal wound against Abu Muhammad. Blood congealed and trickled from the man’s mouth.
Abu Muhammad mocked him. “You’re right, whelp. They should have killed you when they had the chance, when you were a feeble, defenseless child. You are still weak, just like your father. I have seen you in battle. I know you shall show mercy. You shall take me back to Gharnatah, for the Sultan’s justice. You could end it right now, but you have no courage for cold-blooded killing.”
Faraj drew back the sword, the tip poised at Abu Muhammad’s exposed neck. “You think I don’t?”
Three guards entered the room, followed by others. “Come quickly. He found him! Prince Faraj found him.”
Faraj wrenched his weapon away from Abu Muhammad in frustrated fury.
Abu Muhammad leered at him with a hoarse laugh. “It seems you do not have the courage after all, whelp. You won’t kill me this day.”
Faraj drew a harsh breath, his chest paining him. He ordered the soldiers, “Take him…back to Gharnatah.”
Chapter 30
The Prize
Princess Fatima
Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Sha`ban 678 AH (Granada, Andalusia: December AD 1279)
Just two weeks after the siege at Malaka, Fatima stood beside her father on the battlements of al-Quasaba. They braved the bitter cold and welcomed the Sultan’s victorious army home. Fatima had bundled Ismail up in furs and perched him on her shoulders. He gabbled happily, his gums watering, and pointed at the soldiers. When his fat fingertips began reddening with cold, she held his squirming form against her hip although he loudly protested. Her rapt gaze scanned the lines of cavalry for the only face she yearned to see.
Her heart skipped a beat. She whispered a silent prayer of thanks before kissing Ismail’s cheek. “Oh, he’s here, he’s come home at last. It’s your father!”
She waved toward Faraj as he emerged beneath the northern barbican of the citadel. He stared straight ahead and never noticed her.
Disappointed, she nuzzled her son’s pink cheek. “He didn’t see us, but he shall come to us soon.”
Her father asked, “Are you sure it is not too cool for my grandson?”
“Ismail is hearty, strong, like his father and grandfather.”
“Still, I don’t like him outdoors for so long. You should return to your home.”
She patted his forearm. “There’s no need to dissemble with me. I know you want to meet with my husband and the commanders in private.”
The Sultan grinned and kissed Ismail’s cheek. “Sweet boy, I won’t keep your father for long.”
Fatima and her son returned to the house. Amoda emerged and took Ismail. Baraka darted from behind a column at the southern edge. Fatima rounded the corner with her head held high, ignoring her.
“Your husband’s come back alive?”
Fatima turned at the tremulous waver in Baraka’s voice. “He’s returned victorious.”
The concubine pursed her full lips. “I hoped he would die.” Amoda’s shocked gasp almost drowned out the rest of Baraka’s words. “He deserves death for how he treats me.”
Fatima gestured to Amoda. “Leave us. Take my son to his nursery.”
Alone with the concubine, Fatima slapped Baraka hard across the cheek with all the force she could muster. The concubine staggered and nearly fell.
Fatima’s emerald ring cut a slashing, bloody line across her cheek. She looked down at her adversary. “If Faraj dies, do you think I shall suffer you one moment longer than necessary? He tolerates you, despite your arrogance. Be thankful for his mercy. If it were my choice, you would’ve been sold long ago or worse.”
She withdrew to her room. Her annoyance at Baraka grew into agitation, when Faraj did not return as soon as she expected, or as her father had promised. The sun cast long shadows along the walls before dipping below the horizon. Still she waited for him. In the early evening, she ate alone with Ismail and put him to bed. When the moon rode high above her head, she retired from the solitary vigil in the garden courtyard. Leeta readied her for bed. Fatima pulled the silken covers up to her shoulders.
Sometime during the night, the familiar scent and warmth of Faraj woke her. With a groggy sigh, she curled an arm around his chest and nestled
her head on his shoulder. His feathery kiss rustled her hair. “I’m sorry, beloved. I know you must’ve been worried for me.”
“I was. I waited for you. I think Ismail waited for you too. What hour is it?”
“It shall be midnight soon.”
“Father kept you for so long at his side?”
He pulled her tight against him. His sigh rippled through the air. “Go to sleep, we’ll talk in the morning.”
After dawn, she awoke and found him smiling at her. He tweaked her nose. “You were snoring again.”
“I’ve told you before, princesses don’t snore.”
“Perhaps not, but you did last night.”
She hit him across the chest with her pillow. He grabbed his. In the ensuing mock fight, she forgot all the worries of the past few weeks and delighted in having him home again. A particularly good wallop sent him sprawling. However, he grabbed her ankles and yanked her off the bed. She tumbled beside him. His warm, wide mouth covered hers. Her bubbling laughter faded and she clung to him, while his hands roamed her body. A heavy knock at the door shattered their burgeoning intimacy.
Between each long, drugging kiss, she said, “Most likely…our son…is awake and…screaming…for his milk.”
“Then, we should have heard him by now.” His fingers pulled at the strings of her tunic. “He has the loud, lusty cry of his father.”
“Is that what his father is, lusty?”
He grabbed her hand and drew it between their bodies. “Can’t you tell?”
The knocking came again. Her fingers curled around the bulging beneath his trousers. He groaned and kissed her shoulder blades.
She threaded her fingers through his dark, silky hair. “We can’t ignore our son, you know. What sort of parents would we be?”
“I wouldn’t dare ignore Ismail, but I wish I could stay here with you forever.”
His wistful look made her sigh.
She kissed his brow. “You can, my love, always, except when our son demands to be fed.”
The incessant pounding continued. He released her and stood, stamping to the door. She admired the lean muscles of his back.
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