About the White Palace far south of the Great Mountains were pitched a
thousand tents, some under the shadows of the wooded heights, others on
the banks of a broad river. The palace stood on a hill in the midst of a
valley, like a white casket wonderfully carved set upon a pedestal of
green marble. In its gardens fountains played amid groves of roses,
myrtles, and orange trees. Huge cypresses rose against the gleaming
walls, overshadowing beds of purple flowers, white marble stairways,
tranquil pools. Towards the deep blue dome of the sky, tower, turret,
and minaret mimicked the white peaks of the distant mountains.
About the White Palace on its hill were gathered the armies of Serjabil
the Caliph. Pious Moslem that he was, a turbulent man with a heart of
fire, he had sent a letter through all his caliphate to such as served
Allah and loved the Crescent.
“In the name of the most merciful God, Serjabil to all true believers,
joy and greatness be upon you. By the most high God and Mohammed his
Prophet, this is to declare that I would send our arms against the
infidels who have fallen upon each other beyond the mountains. For
behold fighting for the truth is obedience to God. Therefore gather to
me, children of the faith, with bow and spear, buckler and scimitar,
that we may destroy the infidels, and beat down the Cross into the
dust.”
In the great Hall of the Ambassadors sat Serjabil in his ivory chair, a
hundred carved pillars dwindling around into the golden gloom of the
deepening eve. The ceiling of the hall was of cedar wood, inlaid with
silver and lapis lazuli. The walls were covered with tiles of azure and
green; the pillars and arches decorated with arabesques and letters of
beaten gold. The floor was of white marble, the hangings of scarlet
silk.
Serjabil wore a green turban enriched with rubies. His red robe was
edged with rare fur over a tunic that was white as the marble floor. In
his belt shone a jewelled scimitar, and before him on a desk of cedar
wood was laid the Koran—the book of the Prophet.
Serjabil’s black eyes gleamed and sparkled in his dusky face. It was the
face of a man who was both a soldier and a sage, one who possessed the
heart of a Kaled and the wisdom of an Ali knit together. About him were
gathered the great ones of his land, emirs with snow-white beards,
merchant princes, soldiers, scribes. They were gathered there in
Serjabil’s palace to hear his commands concerning the war.
Before Serjabil’s chair stood Hassan the poet, a thin-featured man, with
a short black beard. The Caliph had called him forth from the throng to
utter panegyrics in praise of war.
“Oh Hassan,” were the Caliph’s words, “to what would you liken the
servant of God who destroyeth the heathen and obeyeth the Prophet?”
The poet salaamed, and touched with his lips a little charm that he wore
at his neck on a silver chain.
“Oh Lion of God,” quoth he, stretching out his hands, “who shall dare to
praise the great? Behold, have I not seen the sun in his strength roll
back the mists out of the valleys and launch his chariots over the
hills? The hearts of the holy hunger for battle, for the sound of the
sword and the cry of the trumpet. To the sun would I liken the Lion of
God, who giveth life to the children of men, even life in death, and in
death paradise.”
Serjabil took a brooch from his red robe, a brooch set with precious
stones, and cast it on the floor at Hassan’s feet.
“Oh son of the golden mouth,” he said, “God give ye joy of the true
belief.”
Hassan bowed low and took the brooch.
“Methinks,” he cried, with his face afire, “that I see the black-eyed
girls of heaven gazing upon us from their scented gardens.”
At a sign from Serjabil two black slaves brought a man in shackles from
a neighbouring alcove. It was Thibaut the Apostate, a renegade priest,
who had fled from Agravale over the mountains. He had received many
wrongs at Jocelyn’s hands, and in his shame he had abjured the Cross,
and turned Mohammedan to serve his ends.
Standing before Serjabil’s chair, with the huge Æthiopians towering
above him, Thibaut told of the state of the Christian provinces, and of
the turbulence and vanity that reigned therein. He told how Samson had
arisen in the Seven Streams, and had spread his heresy among the people
till the Pope had decreed a crusade against him and the barons of the
south had marched to war. Thibaut described the lands north of the
mountains as empty and ruinous, rotten with decay. The Cross had been
carried against the Cross, so that the Christians had sapped each
other’s strength. The Southern Marches, ay, and the Seven Streams,
waited for the conqueror who should come with the sword.
When Thibaut had spoken, Serjabil arose and laid his hand on the open
Koran.
“In the name of God,” he said, “and of Mohammed His Prophet, shall we
not march against these fools? Behold, we are strong, we are not
divided. While these Christians quarrel, let us cross the mountains.”
Many dark eyes kindled at the words; hands were stretched towards the
Sacred Book, swords drawn and held towards the cedarn roof. The dusky
faces shone with zeal, and white teeth gleamed behind coal-black beards.
Serjabil drew his scimitar from its sheath, kissed the naked blade
whereon were carved texts from the Koran and the names of his ancestors.
“La illah il Allah,” cried they all with the dim, strange ardour of the
East, “let us march, oh Lion, against the Cross.”
Then through the shadowy galleries, under the dreamy arches, came the
cry of a muezzin from the minaret in the great court—
“To prayer, to prayer.”
For it was the hour before sunset, when the hills were red above the
cypress thickets and the golden meads. Silence had fallen in the hall
where black slaves knelt with bowls full of water under the blue and
silver roof. The solemn worshippers cleansed themselves, washing face,
hands, and neck before falling to prayer. Every turbaned head was bowed
towards the east, while the prayers went up through the many arches into
the gold of the evening sky.
When Serjabil rose from off his knees, he closed the Koran upon its
stand of cedar wood, and passed out to the stone-paved terrace that
looked over the valley towards the woods. Beneath lay the palace garden,
its dark thickets steeped in the odour of a myriad flowers. Soldiers and
scribes followed the Caliph, their many-coloured turbans like a rich
parterre against the whiteness of the palace walls.
Beneath in the valley stood the tents of Serjabil’s camp. The Saracens
had risen from the grass where they had knelt in prayer, their faces
towards the east. Seeing the Caliph upon the walls, they raised a loud
shout, stretched up their hands to him.
“La illah il Allah,” came the cry, “oh Lion of Heaven, the Prophet
preserve thee.”
Many ran to where their horses were tethered, loosed them, mounted, and
took spear and shield. They galloped and circled over the meadows,
tossing their lances high in the air, making mimic onslaughts, troop
against troop. Their wild cries rang over rock and river as the sun went
down into the west.
Serjabil stood close by the parapet with Thibaut the Apostate by his
side.
“Behold,” he cried to those around him, “how the crescent moon climbs
into the sky. She shall shine full on us that night when we cross the
mountains.”