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
[Illustration: Moorish Mills in the Guadalquivir, at Cordova.]
[Illustration]
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:
“But why, my queen, should you, the wife of Roderich, be answerable for
his doom? It is said that the Gothic king tempted the infernal powers
when he forced open the portals of the Tower of Hercules and let forth
the demons confined there upon the earth.”
“That is true,” answered Egilona, “and the rash act was doubtless the
cause of his death. Still the misfortunes which cling to me seem to have
led on to his. Had he not loved me he might have married the daughter of
Don Julian.”
“And what misfortunes has my Egilona encountered? You forget I know not
who you are, or how you came here.”
Then she recounted to him her royal birth, and how from childhood she
had been affianced to the son of the King of Tunis; the history of the
storm which threw her on the coast of Spain; the Alcaide of Denia (now
Malaga), upon whom she had made so favourable an impression. (Here the
enamoured Emir drew a deep sigh, and pressed his lips upon her hand as
she lay half-reclining upon a pile of gold-worked cushions.)
“Again I wore the bridal robes,” she continued, “which I had on when I
was shipwrecked, as I awaited Don Roderich.”
Here was a pause. Egilona drops her eyes and is silent. The veins on the
forehead of Abdul-asis suddenly swell with agony. Every word she utters
plunges a dagger in his breast. “This was the man she loved,” he tells
himself. “By the Prophet, she will never be to me as she was to him--dog
of a Christian!”
Meanwhile, guessing his thoughts, a thousand blushes suffuse the cheeks
of poor Egilona and dye her olive skin with a ruddy brilliance. “What
could I do?” she asks in a plaintive voice. “I had broken through the
bonds of Eastern custom; I had despised the laws of the harem; I had
stood face to face with man. The beauty and variety of the outer world
was known to me. The visits of Don Roderich----”
“Say no more, my queen!” exclaims the generous-hearted Abdul-asis,
ashamed of his jealous weakness. “Could any one approach you without
love? I guess the conclusion.”
* * * * *
When the discreet Ayub was informed of the purpose of his cousin to wed
the Gothic Queen, he covered his head and sat in sackcloth and ashes. In
this unbecoming guise he forced himself into the presence of the Emir.
“Are you mad?” he cries, “O son of Mousa! Remember the words of your
great father, bravest among the chiefs of Damascus: ‘Beware of love, my
son. It is a passion----’”
“Enough, enough,” answers Abdul-asis, rising from the divan on which he
had thrown himself, as the spectacle his cousin presented had moved him
to laughter, “I have heard these words before.”
“And you will hear them again, O son of my kinsman! I will not forsake
you, by Allah! for his sake, nor give you over to the evil genius that
possesses you.”
But the wrongs of Ayub, however terrible, melted as wax before the
fierce fire of the Emir’s love.
His nuptials with Egilona were celebrated with great pomp. Nor did
possession cool his ardour. He lived but for her. He consulted with her
in all the affairs of his government, and rejected the counsels of the
discreet though most troublesome cousin.
For a time no evil consequences ensued, and the fears of Ayub were
almost lulled. Yet who can resist his fate?
Reposing one day in a gorgeous chamber of the Alcazar (it is now called
the room of Maria de Padilla, but it was then known as the Hall of the
Sultana), Egilona drew from under the folds of her mantle a circlet of
gold.
“See, love,” said she, “the crown of Roderich the Goth. Let me place it
on your brow. It will become you well.”
Holding up as she spoke a steel mirror attached to her girdle by a rope
of pearls, she called upon him to admire the majesty of his appearance.
With a sigh he looked at himself, the crown placed on the folds of his
turban, then put it from him and, like Cæsar, sighed that it could not
be his.
“My love,” says Egilona, replacing it, “the wearer of a crown is a
sovereign indeed. Believe me, the Christians are right; it sanctifies
the rule.”
A second time, like Cæsar, Abdul-asis put the crown from him. Yet did
his fingers linger on the rim, while he endeavoured to explain to
Egilona that, as a Moslem, she must not urge him to go against the
custom of his nation.
Still Egilona insists, her soft fingers clasped in his, her tempting
lips resting on his own.
“There has been no real king in Spain,” she urges, “without a crown. I
pray you, dear husband, do not refuse me.”
At first it was only worn in private, but the fact was too strange not
to be noised abroad. The Moorish damsels in attendance on Egilona and
the guards and eunuchs which fill an Eastern Court bore the news from
mouth to mouth as a strange wonderment.
“The Emir not only has wedded a Christian wife, but he wears the Gothic
crown,” is whispered in Seville. “He seeks to rule us as Roderich did.”
To this was added by the many-tongued voice of calumny, “that not only
Egilona had induced him to become a king, but, oh horror of horrors,
that he was surely a Christian!”
“By the head of the Prophet, I swear it is a lie!” cried the discreet
Ayub to the ancient counsellors Mousa had placed about his son, who, in
their long dark robes, gathered round him in dismay. “Not a day passes
but Abdul-asis may be seen offering up his prayers in the Zeca, his face
turned towards Mecca. Ask the muezzin at the Giralda if it be not so.
Five times a day does he prostrate himself; and as to purifying, there
is not water enough in Seville to serve him.”
“But the crown, most powerful vizier, does not the Emir wear a crown?”
At this Ayub, feigning a sudden fit of coughing, turned aside. “I have
never seen it,” he answers at last; “I swear I have never seen it.”
“That may very likely be,” is the answer; “but it is well known, and for
a Moslem to wear a Christian crown is against the laws of the Koran.
Allah Achbar! we have spoken.” So, covering their faces with their
robes, as those that mourn the dead, they departed from the presence of
Ayub.
Enemies were not wanting to Abdul-asis in Seville, his own, and those
who hated him as the son of the famous Mousa.
These wrote hasty letters to Damascus, accusing him not only of
detaining captives of price, but as seeking to establish the Gothic
kingdom by right of Egilona, acknowledged as their queen by all the
Christians.
Now Suleiman, a new Caliph, was on the throne, and it so happened that
he cherished a deep hatred against Mousa, whom he had divested of all
his high commands in favour of the One-Eyed, who had brought rich spoil
to Damascus.
The Caliph waited for no proofs, he wanted none. It was enough that
Abdul-asis was accused, and that his death would be the heaviest
punishment he could inflict on the unfortunate Mousa.
* * * * *
When the fatal scroll was laid before Ayub the parchment dropped from
his hand.
“Allah is great!” cried he, as soon as words came to him. “It is known
of all men I have taken no part in my cousin’s marriage; rather that I
have always opposed it. Beware, said I, of the seductions of love. Avoid
the strange woman upon whose face is written an evil fate. As long as I
could I counselled him well, as I had promised his father. Now the
Caliph’s commands must be obeyed, else we shall all lose our heads,
which will not keep that of Abdul-asis on his shoulders.”
Thus spoke Ayub, discreet to the last. As long as he could shield the
Emir he had done so loyally. Now that he must die he hastened to assist
at his downfall.
* * * * *
The assassins came upon them as they sat together beneath a purple
awning, drawn from tree to tree,--four naked Nubians, black as night,
with four naked scimitars. So lightly fell their bare feet as they
glided behind them, they looked like some hideous vision of the night.
Before the dawn of day, Abdul-asis and Egilona had risen, disturbed by
the noise of the populace without. No one would tell them what it meant.
While the Emir was preparing to go himself to the walls, to inquire if
Egilona had returned from praying in a little chapel she had caused to
be erected within the limits of the harem, their fate came to them.
Together they fell under the cruel steel, together their bodies lay
exposed upon the stones.
The dogs of the palace would have mangled them, but that some friendly
hand gathered them up and interred them secretly in one of the many
squares of the garden.
Where they lie, no one knows, or if it was the discreet Ayub who buried
them. But as the time of the year comes round when they suffered, in the
hour preceding dawn, stifled sighs and groans are heard in the angles of
the walls, and a universal tremor runs through the space; although the
outer air is still, a sudden tempest seems to rustle, the fan palms
quiver as if shaken by unseen hands, the pale-leaved citrons bow their
heads to a mysterious blast, clouds of white blossoms cover the earth
like snow, and the leaves of the yellow jasmine fly as if with wings.
Then a clash of scimitars breaks the silence, the shadowy form of a
stately lady floats across the pavement, closely followed by the figure
of a Moor, who sighs and wrings his hands, gliding on into the thickness
of the woods, when a dark cloud gathers and they disappear.