Old Court Life in Spain; vol. 1

But the son of Mousa was a warrior, though the gods had made him poetical. He could not long be idle, and hastened to fulfil the second mission confided to him by Mousa – to overcome the far-off province of Murcia.

Another faithful knight who had survived the battle of the Guadalete was Teodomir, who, by skilful management had entrenched himself in Murcia. Not only brave, but singularly prudent, Teodomir had observed that to oppose the Moors openly in the field was to ensure defeat, therefore he had fortified as best he could, every wild recess of the rocky hills lying toward the coast, and every rise and knoll whence he could shoot down arrows and missiles. So that when Abdul-asis appeared in the land, cleft asunder by wide rivers and divided by swamps and flats, he encountered no enemy.

“This is a blind warfare,” he cried, “a war without a foe. What manner of man is this Goth who wages war in the clouds, and with a few raw troops holds my army in check?”

With a grim smile Teodomir marked the success of his tactics. Spies told him that, in the council of Abdul-asis, retreat had already been mooted, and more and more he insisted upon giving his enemy no chance in the open.

Not so his sons. “What glory is there here?” say these youths. “Let us go forth and face him. We are as good as he. If our men are less disciplined, courage makes up the balance.”

“Fools,” answered old Teodomir, laying his wrinkled hands upon them, and drawing them to him, that he might make them if possible understand his counsels. “Glory dazzles from afar, but safety is the best when a foe knocks at the door.”

Continued dropping wears a stone. To his great joy, as the sun rose and the weary eyes of handsome Abdul-asis turned towards the marshy plains, he beheld Teodomir riding onwards towards the camp at the head of his troops, a son on either hand, the old Goth in the centre in shining armour, with nodding plumes, preceded by flags and horsemen.

“Now Allah be praised!” he exclaims. “At last! Saddle my war-horse Suleiman, and let all the sheikhs follow me, for it is written in the book of fate that these dogs of Christians are given into our hands.”

“Alas! my sons,” said Teodomir, reining up his steed, as his practised eye showed him the purpose of the dark body of advancing Arabs, with the green flags, galloping rapidly in the rear, under the cover of the heights. “Alas! it has happened as I said. We are cut off. What can our raw troops do against these well-armed Arabs? Let us make for the fastness of Orihuela while we can.”

The sons, however, would not listen, but like vain youths opposed their father’s counsel, as did also the captains. The Moor asked for nothing better. He attacked then fiercely in the open plain, cut down the two presumptuous boys before their father’s eyes, and beat his troops, who fled on all sides.

Nor could Teodomir stay the flight. Seeing that all was lost, and his sons dead, he seized the bridle of a horse ridden for him by a little page, who tended him in his tent, and who like the rest was spurring onward in full flight.

“Tarry a moment, my son,” says Teodomir, grasping the bridle with an iron grip. “Mount behind and part not from me, for I will save thy life!”

So digging his huge spurs into his horse’s flanks, at which the well-trained animal, used to his practised touch, reared indignantly on its hind legs and pawed the air, then started off in a wild gallop, swift as the rushing wind. Nor did they pause until, mounting the steep zig-zag path, they were both safe within the fortress of Orihuela.

There it still stands, a castle of defence, crowned by dark bulwarks on a mountain chain, an outlook for scores of miles over a flat country towards Granada and the sea. Round and round the base winds the road from Alicante, through overhanging lanes, under palm-trees and embowering citron woods, broken by red earthed barrancas. The town itself (Auri-welah) is still very Eastern, with domed church and castellated towers, the whole district with great tidal rivers cutting through, fertile beyond words.

As the day fell, and the sun went down in lemon-coloured clouds, Abdul-asis approached, thinking to find an easy conquest. But to his amazement the walls appeared fully garrisoned, and from the keep a proud flag floated, bearing the colours of the Goths.

“How is this?” said the son of Mousa. “Is it a necromancy? Or have these men risen from the earth? With my own eyes I saw Teodomir flying alone, a page riding behind him. His sons are dead, his forces scattered. Who are these but fiends he has summoned by magic to his aid?”

And fear fell upon him as he gazed, and he commanded that no attack be ventured, but that the camp should be formed at the base of the rock until morning.

Upon which Teodomir, who was looking out, took a flag of truce, fastened it to a lance, put a herald’s tabard on the back of the page who had fled with him, and a high-crowned hat on his head, and went down to where the purple tent and the Crescent standard marked the spot where Abdul-asis was to be found.

“I come,” said Teodomir, in a tone of lofty courtesy, raising his iron vizor, and showing the stern face of a warrior, the young page behind him, proud of the particoloured dress, and swaying the flag of truce in cadence to his words, “I come as a Gothic knight into your presence, most magnanimous son of Mousa, whom men call ‘the merciful,’ to treat of the surrender of the castle. As you see, our walls are fully manned, and we have food for a lengthened siege. But much blood has flowed. I have lost my sons, and fain would spare the lives of my people. Promise that we may pass unmolested, and when the rising sun tips the circle of mountains towards the east, we will surrender. Otherwise, we will fight until none are left.”

Abdul-asis, young in craft and unsuspecting, as became the poetic quality of his soul, was greatly struck with the bold words of the veteran, who stood his ground so valiantly alone against an army. The castle, too, was strong, and appeared amply defended. Generosity in this case was policy. He consented gladly, standing forth alone, a crimson caftan thrown over his armour, the folds of his turban shading his massive Egyptian features and his lustrous eyes. To the articles of capitulation, he hastened to affix his seal. Then he addressed Teodomir:

“Tell me, bold Christian,” said he, “you who have ventured alone into the Moorish camp, now that we are friends, of what force is the garrison of Orihuela?”

A grim smile spread over the face of the veteran. “Wait and see,” was his answer. “With the morning light we will evacuate the place.”

As the sun rises in glory behind the eastern mountain tips, and its first rays strike upon the battlements, Teodomir appears, followed by a motley crowd of old women, greybeards, and children tottering down the descent.

Abdul-asis waited with wondering eyes until they had reached the plain. “Where,” he said, “O Teodomir, are the valiant soldiers who lined the walls, and have so well maintained the honour of the Goths?”

“Soldiers,” answers Teodomir; “by the Lord, I have none. My garrison is before you. These manned the walls. My page” – here he pointed to the stripling disguised in the habit of a herald, the heavy coat dragging after him upon the ground, the helmet falling over his face – “is my herald, guard, and army.”

Ere Teodomir had finished speaking, a great uproar arose among the Moors.

“Tear him limb from limb,” cry the sheikhs. “Cut the throat of the Christian dog. Let him not live who deceives the Moslems of Islam!” But with a stern gesture Abdul-asis interposed: “Let no man dare to touch the Christian knight,” he orders. “By righteous fraud he has defended his castle. I command that the rights of war are granted him.”

Then, taking Teodomir by the hand he led him to his tent, and ordered wine and meat to be served to him as to himself. And in memory of this defence the provinces of Murcia and Valencia, all through the Moorish occupation, were known as “the Land of Tadmir” or “Teodomir.”

Thanks to the rivalry between these two commanders, Mousa and Tháryk, Gothic Spain had fallen to the Moors in an incredibly short space of time: the banners of the Crescent waved from Pelayo’s country in the mountains of the Asturias in the north, to Calpe and the Pillars of Hercules in the south; from the borders of Lusitania (Estremadura) in the west, to the coast of Tarragona and Valencia in the east; and the mighty city of Saragossa, where so many Christians had taken refuge, also yielded.

At length a summons came from Sultan Suleiman, at Damascus, to both leaders, to appear before him, to render an account of their conquests and their spoils, as well as to settle the justice of those dissensions which raged so fiercely between them.

Before he left Spain, Mousa addressed a letter to his son, at Seville. “Son of my heart,” he wrote, “may Allah guard thee! Thou art of too tender and confiding a nature. Listen to thy father’s words. Avoid all treachery, for, being in thyself loyal, thou mayest be caught by it. Trust no one who counsels it. I have placed with thee at Seville, according to the inexperience of thy age, our kinsman, the discreet Ayub. Listen to his counsels in all things, as thou wouldst to myself. Beware, too, O my son, of the seductions of love. As yet thy heart is untouched. May Allah so preserve it! Love is an idle passion, which enfeebles the soul and blinds the judgment. Love renders the mighty weak, and makes slaves of princes. Farewell. May Allah guard thee and lengthen thy days.”

CHAPTER X

Abdul-asis and Egilona

THE Alcazar at Seville (each Spanish city has its Alcazar) still stands in the centre of the city. Not the decorated palace we see it now, rebuilt by the Toledan Zalubi for Prince Abdurrahman, and afterwards enlarged and beautified by Don Pedro el Cruel, in imitation of the Alhambra of Granada, but a veritable citadel, surrounded by low tapia walls, on the verge of the tidal current of the Guadalquivir, and flanked by the Gothic tower (Torre del oro) which still remains.

Not a poetic ruin, this Alcazar like the Alhambra, but a real castle, whole and entire, ready to receive, to this day, emirs or sultans, kings, queens, or princes, whenever their good pleasure calls them to Seville.

Behind lie the gardens, flushed with roses, oleanders, and pomegranates, approached by stately terraces sweet with the familiar scent of carnation, violet, and jasmine. A delicious plaisance formed into a series of squares, divided by low myrtle hedges, and orange-lined walls, central fountains bubbling up in sheets of foam, and streams and runnels, tanks and ponds, along which are walks paved with variegated tiles.

The azahar of a thousand blossoms is in the air, golden oranges hang tempting on the stem, and deeply tinted butterflies course each other among embowered alleys, leading to gaily painted kiosks and pavilions with latticed walls.

Whether Abdul-asis exacted the tribute demanded by the Moorish law of a hundred Christian “virgins, fifty rich and fifty poor,” to adorn his harem, I cannot say. He would scarcely have dared openly to omit it. But instead of choosing from among these damsels that pleased his eye, and selling the rest as slaves, he contented himself with selecting one, and dowered such others who were poor, and married them to his Moors.

In his harem he also maintained many Christian captives as hostages for the land. But they were treated not only with respect, but with luxury, within the precincts of the lovely little Patio de las Muñecas– from all time devoted to the harem – the loveliest sheet of snowy lace-work ever beheld. Not a speck of colour on the pure stone; not a badge or motto, only tiers of open galleries, latticed in white.

If ever these dark Eastern beauties return to haunt the glimpses of the moon, it is surely in this patio their dazzling forms will linger!

Here they lived a pleasant life, plied their fingers in rich embroidery copied from the looms of Damascus, danced ole or cachucha, to castanets, or sang to lute and cither those wild malagueñas, with long sad notes.

Many were even contented with their lot. But all followed with longing eyes the graceful form of the young Emir, putting forth their charms to attract his roving eyes.

“Beware, O my son, of the seductions of love,” had written Mousa to his son. “It is an idle passion which enfeebles the heart and blinds the judgment.”

And so his discreet cousin Ayub continually repeated, but, spite of these warnings, Abdul-asis often solaced himself in the company of the fair, specially among the Christian captives, who were both beautiful and well-educated. Indeed, it was here the lonely young Emir spent his happiest hours, as the moon mounted into the realm of blue and star after star shone out to be doubled in the basins of the fountains, the murmur of innumerable jets and streamlets falling on the ear.

It was peace, absolute peace, such as comes to those balancing on the bosom of the sea, or on desert plains, or in the mystery of deep forests, or in the grave!

One night as his eyes range unconsciously into the gloom, he is startled to find that he is not alone.

Deep within a thicket of aloes the lines of a woman’s form are visible, seated upon the ground.

“Who can this be?” he asks himself with breathless haste. “I cannot recall having seen her before, either in the harem or among the captives.”

Yet it was a form, once seen, not to be forgotten. Her dark hair hung like a cloud over her shoulders, and her eyes, as she turned them upwards, catching a ray of moonlight, shone out like stars.

“Who is she?” And Abdul-asis rises softly, the better to observe her. “Yes, she is matchless, but that sadness is not natural. Her attitude, her movements are languid and full of pain. Her hands lie weary. She avoids her companions. What can it mean? Some tale of deep sorrow is shut up in her soul. She is under my roof and I am ignorant of her life. I will at once address her.”

For some minutes he stood silent, his eyes wandering over the many beauties which disclosed themselves to his gaze; but to his astonishment, as he looked closer, he perceived from the dark olive of her skin that the stranger must be an Egyptian or a Moor.

At last, moved by a singular emotion, he addressed her.

“Who are you, gentle lady?” he asked, his naturally sweet voice tuned to its softest accents. “Why do you sit alone? Confide to me your grief.”

“Death alone can end it,” was her reply.

“Nay,” whispered Abdul-asis, in a voice melting with pity, “fair one, seek not to sacrifice that which Allah has made so perfect. The very sense of loveliness is yours. Let it be mine. As the houris of Paradise dwell under the shadow of the Great Angel’s wings, so, lady, shall you dwell under mine. I am Lord of Andalusia. Power is in my hands. Speak to me,” and he drew near and touched the tips of her henna-stained fingers. “Have faith in me.” If he had dared he would have clasped her to his heart. Never had the veiled fair ones of the harem moved him so.

With his lustrous eyes fixed on hers he waited for an answer, or at least for some sign that she was not displeased. None came.

Now this to Abdul-asis was a new development of woman which served only to heighten the ardour of his sudden passion. Opposition proverbially is a spur to love, and now the old axiom operated in full force upon one who had never known repulse.

Again he assayed to clasp her delicate fingers within his own and gently draw her towards him.

“Light of my life,” he murmured, “speak!” In vain – the lady replied only by her sobs. Nor was it in the power of Abdul-asis to make her speak.

At length – was it the languid beauty of the night, the power of the moon, great in the annals of unspoken love, or some occult mystery communicated to her by his touch? – a rosy bloom rose on her dark cheeks and, withdrawing her hand from his ardent clasp, she suddenly unlocked the mystery of her coral lips.

“I am Egilona,” she whispered, as if she feared to confide the name to the night air; “once wife of Don Roderich and Queen of Spain.”

Words cannot paint the amazement of Abdul-asis. That the beautiful stranger, known to have become a captive after the defeat of the Guadalete, should be dwelling within his Alcazar, unknown to himself, seems too astonishing to comprehend! That he, too, unconsciously, should have presumed to approach her with the facile dalliance of love grieves his generous soul.

All which he endeavours to express to Egilona in the most eloquent language he can command, while he bends the knee before her as a vassal to his queen.

Then he sighed. Her royal position placed an insuperable barrier between them. Besides, he felt that the Caliph at Damascus ought to be notified at once of the possession of such an illustrious captive.

“Could he do so?” he asked himself. “Could he run the risk of losing her? No! a thousand times no!”

Chance or fate had thrown her in his way. She was actually a slave in his harem. There she should remain unless she herself wished otherwise.

Fortunately that tiresome person, the discreet Ayub, knew nothing about her. His reproaches, at all events, were not to be encountered. Possibly! – ah! possibly – a tender project formed itself in his brain. Would she, the wife of the royal Goth, consent to share an Emir’s throne?

But at that moment he was too much overcome and self-diffident to allow himself to pursue so roseate a dream.

Calling together his guards, hidden about the garden, but ever present near his person, Abdul-asis, with a heart torn by conflicting emotions, conducted Egilona through the marble courts to the Patio de las Muñecas.

All that the tenderest love could dictate was showered upon her by the amorous Emir. She lived in the royal apartments, and a special train of slaves, eunuchs, and women attended upon her. Before the gold-embroidered draperies of her door turbaned guards stood day and night, holding naked scimitars. Her table was served with the same luxury as that of a sultana. When she went abroad into the streets of Seville she rode on a beautiful palfrey, caparisoned with silken fringes, a silver bridle and stirrup, and a bit of gold. At the sound of the tinkling bells which hung about the harness, all who met her prostrated themselves to the earth, as though the Emir himself were passing. Even the muezzin, ringing out the hour of prayer from the galleries of the Giralda, was commanded to pronounce a blessing on her head.

Such a complete change in the life of Abdul-asis could not but arouse the wrath of the discreet Ayub. Numberless were the times he tried to waylay him, always ineffectually, however, for the Emir gave orders he was not to be admitted.

One day they did meet in the outer Patio de las Bandieras (where now the superb portal of Don Pedro blazes in the sun), just as Abdul-asis was mounting his horse for the chase.

“Hold, my cousin and lord,” cries Ayub, laying hold of his bridle. “Tarry awhile, I pray you, for the sake of our kinship. Am I a dog, that you should drive me with kicks and imprecations from your door?”

“Far from me be such a thought,” replies Abdul-asis, colouring. “No one thinks better of you than I. But, my cousin, permit me now to depart. Another time we will pursue the subject.”

“Bear with me now awhile rather,” cries Ayub, detaining him by the folds of his embroidered robe. “O Abdul-asis, remember the words of your father: ‘Beware, my son, of the seductions of love. It renders the mighty weak and makes slaves of princes.’ ”

The colour on the face of the Emir deepened into a flush of wrath. He was weary of hearing these words ever repeated – yet he kept silence.

“Time was, my cousin,” continues the discreet Ayub, “when you listened to my words, and all went well. Now, for the sake of a strange woman, a slave, a captive, you are bartering your kingdom.”

At this coarse allusion to the royal Egilona

Abdul-asis could scarcely resist the temptation of enlightening Ayub as to her real condition, but he forebore.

“It is my right, O Ayub, to love whom I choose,” he answers coldly, again preparing to mount his horse.

Again Ayub arrests him, and, forgetting all respect in the heat of his argument, fairly shouts in his ear:

“Yes, O son of the great Mousa, but not like that glorious warrior. Yes, free to love a whole tribe of slaves if you please, gather all the beauties from the corners of the earth, the houris of Paradise, if you can get them, but you have no right to sacrifice your throne and bring ruin on your race.”

To this torrent of reproach Abdul-asis answered not a word. Steadying by his touch and voice the exasperated horse, which had now become restive under the delay, as if sharing in the irritation of his master, Abdul-asis surveyed his cousin as if to demand what more abuse he had in store – a look and manner which only exasperated Ayub all the more.

“What kind of a sovereign are you,” he continued, in the same shrill voice, which echoed round the court and could not fail to reach the ears of the guards and eunuchs, however unmoved their countenances might remain, “who pretend to have no time to administer justice in the Gate as your Moorish ancestors did? Who neglect to review your troops in the great plains about the city and to take counsel upon the affairs of state with the chiefs and counsellors sent hither by the Caliph? Can you expect that he will continue you as governor, when the report of your acts comes to his ears? With you will fall your father Mousa and your brothers in Africa. Who is this witch who has overlooked you? Send her away, or by the name of Allah I will no longer screen you!”

Even the discreet Ayub paused here for lack of breath, and the young Emir, quickly vaulting into the saddle, rode off in a cloud of dust, followed by his attendants.

Yet, spite of these stinging words, his passion for Egilona was so consuming, that although he felt their truth and that he was entering upon a career full of danger, he could neither pause before it was too late, nor turn back altogether.

Day and night her image pursues him. Spite of all the warnings of Ayub, who, having once broken the ice, never ceases his threats and reproaches, every hour is devoted to her. In the shade of the Alcazar gardens, on the river Guadalquivir, where they float in a silver barge with perfumed sails, under canopies of cloth of gold and silver; within the gaudy halls, sculptured with glowing panels of arabesque, painted roofs, and dazzling dados; and in the Baños, full of breezes from the river and currents of free mountain air, planted with such shrubs and herbs as are used to scent the water, he is ever at her side.

So well did Egilona love the Baños, which reminded her of her African home, that she was wont to say to her favourite slave, the same dark-skinned girl from Barbary who had followed her from Toledo, “When I am dead, Zora, bury me here.”

Yet all this time Egilona had never opened her heart to Abdul-asis. Nor, eager as he was to know her history, had he ventured further to urge her, so great was his respect.

At length, of her own accord, she unveiled the mystery.

“Think not, O noblest of Moors,” she said, in a voice so soft it seemed to lull the agitation of his heart, “that I am insensible to your devotion. I dare not question my own heart.”

“My love, my sultana!” is all that he could answer, casting himself on the earth before her. “Happy destiny that I was born to be your slave!”

Egilona at once raised him, and entreated him to sit beside her.

“No, Abdul-asis, it is not within the power of a woman to resist you. My heart has long been yours. But,” and she sighed, and big tears gathered in her mild eyes and dropped one by one upon the hand Abdul-asis held clasped in his, “I fear that with my love I bring you an evil destiny. Remember the end of Roderich. Can I, oh, can I sacrifice you to the chances of the dark fate that pursues all who love me?”

The face of the Emir grew pale as he gazed at her. Spite of himself, an icy hand seemed to touch his heart and chill it into stone. These were the warnings of the discreet Ayub from her own lips.

Did ruin really lie in those matchless eyes? Was that pure chiselled face indeed the messenger of evil? A rising wave of passion cast these sinister forebodings from him, and, with a calm and steady voice, he answered: