Abdurraman, Sultan of Cordoba
Abdurraman, first Sultan of Cordoba, was a kindly hearted man, with none
of the traditional cruelty of the Arab, eloquent in speech, and of a
quick perception--quite the Caliph of Eastern tales. Never in repose,
never entrusting the care of his kingdom to viziers, intrepid in battle,
terrible in anger and intolerant of opposition; yet ready to follow the
biers of his subjects, pray over the dead, and even to mount the pulpit
of the mosque on Fridays and address the people.
His majestic presence and dark, commanding face, lit up by a pair of
penetrating eyes, shadowed by thick black eyebrows, inspired fear rather
than love in those around him, and though it was said of him “he never
forgot a friend,” it was added, “nor ever forgave an enemy.”
As he passed at evening alone into the garden of Ez-Zahra, the porphyry,
jasper, and marble of the pavement absorbed by the intense blue of the
sky, all his attendants fell back. His brow was knit with thought, for
the fame of the victories of Charles Martel troubled him sorely. He
knew that in knowledge and science the Frankish king was as a peasant
compared to him, yet his name was in all men’s mouths as the conqueror
of the Moors.
Not only did Charles Martel, after the victory of Tours, excel him in
renown, but the remnant of the Goths, driven out of the cities of Spain,
had taken refuge in the mountains bordering the Bay of Biscay, among the
caves and untrodden defiles of the Asturias, and, small and
insignificant as they were, still defied him.
Just and generous in character, the Sultan would have gladly drawn to
him this patriotic band by an equitable rule, if they would have
submitted; but the obstinate endurance of the Spaniard was never more
displayed than in the fierce determination of these fugitives never to
yield.
Thinking of all this, Abdurraman heaved a deep sigh. His soul was full
of sympathy for the brave Goths, but, as Sultan, he was bound to
suppress what was in fact open rebellion.
Long did he pace slowly up and down, musing in a silence broken only by
the distant click of the castanets from the quarter of the harem, where
the light of coloured lanterns shone out athwart huge branches of
magnolia and pepper trees.
That these sounds of revelry were not to his taste was shown by the
disdainful glance he cast in that direction, and a certain gathering
about him of the dark caftan which hung from his shoulders.
Turning his eyes in the direction of one of the many illuminated kiosks
standing out clear in the twilight, he paused, as if expecting some one
to appear.
Nor did he wait long; a dark figure emerged from the gloom, the features
of the face so dusky that but for the general outline of the figure it
might have passed unseen as a phantom of the night.
“Mahoun,” says the Caliph, sharply, as the vizier approached and,
prostrating himself on the earth, awaited his commands, “stand up and
tell me what tidings from the north.”
“By the Prophet, O Caliph,” answers Mahoun, crossing his arms as he rose
to his feet, and bending his supple body in a deep salaam, “tidings of
many colours--good and bad.”
“Give me the bad first, O Vizier! After a storm the sun’s rays shine
brightest. Proceed.”
“Don Pelayo, the Goth, son of the Christian noble, Dux of Cantabria,
murdered by his kinsman,” continued the vizier, “or, as some call him,
Pelagius--for these Gothic dogs much affect Roman names--the leader of
the Christians, has disappeared. Nor can the cunning inquiries of Kerim,
whom in your wisdom you have placed as governor over these newly
conquered provinces, obtain any record of where he has gone. Some say to
the French Court to ask succour for the remnant who still cling to his
fortunes; others that he has died by treachery, or fallen in fight. So
constant were these rumours, O Caliph, that the Goths, discouraged by
his long absence, had fallen into disunion; the wisest (and they are
few) were willing to submit to the rule of Kerim; the greater part
(fools) prepared to elect the Gothic Infanta Onesinda, his sister, as
queen--when of a sudden, Pelayo himself returns, and, with a horde of
Christian beggars at his back, raises the standard of revolt in Galicia
near Gijon.”
“What!” cries the Caliph, suddenly interested, “is Pelayo the youth,
cousin of Don Roderich, who fought at the battle of the Guadalete close
to his chariot, and never left him until he himself vanished from the
battlefield? I have heard of Pelayo. He is of royal birth.”
“The same, O Caliph. Grandson of King Chindavinto, his father, murdered
by that unclean beast Witica, predecessor of Roderich. Pelayo ends the
line of Gothic princes. Kerim despises him as a despicable barbarian
shut up on a mountain, where his followers die of hunger; they have no
food but herbs and honey gathered in the rocks. Let not my Lord regard
him.”
“Call you this good news, O Mahoun? A hero is ever a hero, even in rags!
Though he is my enemy, I respect his valour. Had Roderich fought with
like courage in the defence of Spain, we might now be eating dates in
our tents under our native palms. The courage of the chief represents
the spirit of the nation, as the flash of the lightning precedes the
thunderbolt. _One_ cannot scathe without the other.”
“But, O Caliph of the Faithful,” interrupts the vizier, again
prostrating himself to the ground, “the good news is yet untold.
Pelayo’s sister, Onesinda, is now in our hands,--Kerim, the Governor of
Gijon, has captured her.”
A smile of satisfaction overspread the Caliph’s face. Then, as other
thoughts seemed to gather in his mind, he raised his hand and
thoughtfully passed it across the thick black curls of his beard.
“Surely all courtesy has been used towards this royal lady? I would
rather that Kerim had shown his skill in overcoming men. Do Mussulmen
wage war on women and children? I know Kerim as a valiant leader in the
fight, but I misdoubt much his courtesy towards this daughter of the
Goths. Are we not well-founded enough in Spain to spare this lady?”
“Yes, confined within the strong walls of your harem. Make her your
sultana, O Caliph, she will be free, and, subdued by the wisdom of your
lips, will bring her countrymen with her; otherwise she is too important
a hostage to surrender. For his sister’s sake Pelayo himself may yield.”
“Never, if I know him,” exclaims Abdurraman, “while the fountain of life
flows within his veins--never! Dishonour not the noble Goth so far. To
turn a Christian maiden into a slave would be honour, for a Gothic
princess a sore degradation. Mahoun, I want no sultana to share my
throne. ‘Beware of the wiles of women,’ saith the sage. By the help of
the Prophet, I will still steer clear. But that this noble lady shall
have cause to extol the courtesy of the Moslem is my command.”
“How then shall we deal with her?” asks the vizier with anxious haste,
too well aware of the generous nature of the Caliph. “If Pelayo lays
down his arms, the Infanta might be escorted back in safety to the rocks
and caverns he makes his home, but if he still raises the standard of
revolt, a bow-string would better suit the lady’s throat.”
“Silence, slave,” replies Abdurraman in a deep voice. “Great Allah!
Shall we degrade ourselves to make success depend on the life of a
woman? Summon her here at once. When she arrives in Cordoba, let her
immediately be conducted to my harem. Let orders be given for her
immediate departure from Gijon with suitable attendants.”
“Oh, justest of men and greatest of rulers,” answers the vizier, “permit
your slave yet to speak one word. These infidels must be reached through
their women. Leave, I pray you, Onesinda to the Governor of Gijon, and
she will be bait to catch her brother Pelayo.”
“I have spoken,” answers Abdurraman, haughtily, and turned away. “Be it
according to my commands.”
Deep was the obeisance with which this order was received, but the
astute vizier had views of his own. In the main he was a faithful
servant of his lord, but where a woman was concerned, he deemed it no
crime to temper obedience with interest. An unbeliever! the sister of a
Goth! what was this Onesinda but a toy, a slave, honoured by a glance
from her conqueror? Had the Caliph commanded her immediate execution he
would willingly have obeyed, but to bring her to Cordoba after what he
knew of her treatment at Gijon was more than his head was worth.
Now it so happened that the Governor of Gijon was his friend, and that
Mahoun knew much more about Onesinda than he intended to impart. Her
capture had been a cruel stratagem, and at this very time she was
forcibly lodged in the harem of Kerim.
The vizier had not dared altogether to conceal the important fact of her
capture from the Sultan, but that she should reach Cordoba alive and
tell the tale of her misfortunes, was not at all his intention. The
passion Kerim had conceived for her was well known to Mahoun, and that
she was surrounded by Moorish slaves, who not only urged his suit by
threats and persuasion, but watched her every action. If Onesinda did
not yield to the desires of Kerim, her brother’s fate was certain, were
he taken dead or alive.
On Pelayo rested the hope of the fugitive Goths. The last of the long
line of hereditary princes, all the trust of the conquered lay in him.
That this base intrigue should come to the knowledge of the
[Illustration: A Proclamation in Granada, by Boabdil.
From a Painting by Placido Francés. National Exhibition of Fine Arts,
Madrid, 1884.]
[Illustration]
Caliph was death to all concerned. Not all the bribes offered him by
Kerim in rich stuffs, jewels, and slaves, could blind the astute vizier
to the danger of his position.
“May Allah confound Kerim and his harem!” he exclaimed in a rage, as he
paced the gardens after the Sultan’s departure until late into the
night, his silken sandals falling lightly on the coloured patterns drawn
upon the walks. “Why could not the dark-skinned beauties of Barbary
content him without meddling with the pale-faced Goth? Truly the flag of
the Crescent has triumphed over the Cross in the length and breadth of
Spain; but it is not wise to provoke a fallen people. These Goths have
the endurance of the camel of the desert, which lives long without food
or drink, but even that patient animal will turn upon his driver if he
rains down blows upon him causelessly. Better let the infidels starve in
holes and caverns than bring them down into the plains, bent on a
desperate revenge. A curse on Kerim! The Sultan forgets nothing. He will
ask for Onesinda. What in the name of Allah am I to reply?”