Some turned their faces away from Prince Juan, who stared straight ahead. Even the wind stilled.
Faraj sought out Doñ Alonso again. He had halted at a doorway, though he did not turn around. Someone gripped his arm and spoke with him. Doñ Alonso’s shoulders slumped for a moment and he bowed his head. Then he nodded and re-entered the citadel. He never looked upon the grisly, ruby-red trail leading across the white sand.
Faraj whispered, “As a father of two sons whom I love dearly, I shall honor this sacrifice. I cannot taint this battlefield with the blood of our enemy now that his child’s life has been stolen in such a way.”
Beside him, Muhammad shook his head. “Then you are a fool.”
His murky gaze met Faraj’s own. His weighty hand grasped Faraj’s lean arm. “If you return to Malaka, I pray you shall hold your sons close. Tell them how much you love them and what you have sacrificed for them.”
“I shall. If I am ever to return home, I need your help. There is a commander among the Marinids, who holds great sway over their leaders and warriors. He would not trust me to negotiate a peaceable solution with him.”
“Your old reputation still bedevils you?”
“It does. However, you have always possessed the repute of a fair man, less given to…underhanded means to achieve your ends. He might trust you instead of me.”
“Who is this man?”
“He is Abdallah of Ashqilula, Fatima’s uncle. He was an enemy of the Sultanate. He may still be. Yet, he is also my greatest hope for the future of Tarif.”
Chapter 2
Old Wounds
Prince Faraj
Tarif, Al-Andalus: Dhu al-Qa`da 693 AH (Tarifa, Andalusia: October AD 1294)
With a shrug, Faraj ignored Muhammad’s open-mouthed gape. “Don’t look so shocked. We have played this part with the Ashqilula before.”
Muhammad scratched his balding pate. “Yes, but do you grasp the full meaning of what you’re about to do? You would have an Ashqilula chieftain, the avowed enemy of our clan, abandon the Marinid cause and break with those who gave him a home when he had none.”
Faraj raised an eyebrow. “You are well-informed of his circumstances.”
Muhammad sputtered, “I am not so ignorant as you would believe, brother! Abdallah of Ashqilula is no sentimental fool. His kinship with your wife aside, why do you think he would undertake the risk?”
“He has done it before. He abandoned the unjust cause of his kinsmen before they surrendered to the Sultan of Gharnatah.”
“Yet, he is cautious. Abdallah only revealed himself until after all the Ashqilula chieftains were dead.”
Muhammad paused and drew closer. “Ibrahim of Ashqilula promised to hunt down and kill Abdallah for his betrayal, except the old man died suddenly. He did not survive a month in al-Maghrib el-Aska. A silent assassin took his life in the night. A clever man to have snuck past Ibrahim’s cadre of guards and poisoned his evening tisane.”
“Do the Marinids still offer a reward for the capture of that assassin?”
“I would not know. Ibrahim has been dead for fifteen years. No one shall ever discover his murderer now.”
“I am certain of it.” Faraj had known for several years that his wife’s chief eunuch, Niranjan, bore the responsibility for Ibrahim’s sudden death. There was no cause to reveal the truth to anyone now, not even Muhammad.
When Muhammad eyed him with an unwavering gaze, Faraj continued, “Ibrahim took many lives, including that of my wife’s mother. He deserved his end. Speak no more of him. Instead, tell me how I avoid my own death at Abdallah’s vengeful hands.”
“Even if you succeeded in placating him long enough for him to listen, how would you convince him to withdraw his men?”
Faraj scowled at Muhammad. “You’re supposed to help me find answers, not raise further questions.”
Muhammad shrugged.
Faraj said, “Fatima has described her uncle. He is a man much like you, honorable and deserving of