Hart, Mallory Dorn

by Jasmine on the Wind

  Mercy? What was mercy? he mused sourly. What mercy that he was quickened in the belly of a sultana, a driving woman who instilled in him a will to rule, the maddening, ceaseless desire to be acclaimed Grand Sultan, yet had no way to imbue him with the cruel and forceful spirit necessary to hold his throne.

  Boabdil el Chico, that was what the Spaniards called him. The youngster, the immature. Young yes, he was young in years but old in grief. Despised by his father, who would gladly have killed him, despoiled of his throne, captured by the Christians, and forced to leave his pride and his only son behind, distrusted and reviled by his people, who finally turned to him when there was no one else, hagridden by plotters and overruled by his counselors—there was no one so old as he.

  And yet, and yet life brought some gifts that could release his foundering soul from dark and weary depths: Music and song, poetry, his favorite, loving wife, Morayama, these were his without travail. And only these brought him happiness without exacting bitterness and struggle in return.

  The sound of cheering again rose from below; the Granadans were pleased with him for once. His heart warmed with gratitude. In spite of it all he loved this beautiful land, and for all their caprices he loved his subjects. Allah bestow great wisdom and strength on him that he might provide them with further causes for pride. He absently stroked the smooth red leather binding of a book of verse lying by his side but suddenly sat up, brightening with an idea. For his birthday he would announce a competition—a Tourney of the Poets—to choose the greatest versifier in all Granada. The subject would be—would be Loyalty, and a fat purse of golden dinars would be the prize, and appointment to the Royal Academy....

  An ebony-hued Nubian guard strode into the room, salaamed, and stood aside with arms crossed as the pantalooned Grand Vizier Comixa, spare and sour, entered behind him, followed by two guards and a stranger. Yusef Comixa crossed the wide floor with a stride admirable in a man of his age. A large sapphire gleamed in his spotless white turban as he made a sketchy salaam before his ruler. He was stern and unsmiling, but then the Vizier never smiled.

  "We have tidings from Gaudix, O Sultan," Comixa announced, folding his lips in, the sign of a distasteful subject to come.

  "Speak then, what is the news?"

  "An unheard of disaster, my lord, impossible to believe." Even so the voice was curbed.

  "Yes, yes..."

  "El Zagal has capitulated! He has surrendered his arms and his territories to the Christians. And he has sworn an oath of vassalage to the Spanish Crown!"

  Boabdil leaped forward from his divan as if thunder had clapped in his ear. He grasped the Vizier by the arm. "What? In the almighty name of Allah, is this true?"

  "True, every word. The news is rampant over the city by this time," Comixa answered dryly. "Prince Cidi Yahye was the treacherous instrument by which your uncle was wooed. He sought to convince El Zagal that it is Allah's will that Granada fall—though one needs not brains to realize that your uncle had already bethought himself of the advantages of friendly submission. Alone he knew he would eventually be taken, and rather would he cede his possessions to the enemy than place them, and himself, under our protection. They have given him the Andarraxa Valley and revenues from the salt mines there, and consigned him to oblivion."

  Quickly Comixa held up a warning hand to halt the Sultan from reacting. "We have an eyewitness to the meeting, a disaffected Morisco," the Grand Vizier said. He jerked his head and the soldiers behind him pushed forward an exhausted, booted rider, still wearing the dirty, crumpled tunic and hosen of Christian Spain, the dusty cloak which had covered them crushed over his arm.

  "Speak, man," Comixa's rusty voice grated.

  The red-rimmed eyes blinked, the weary body and hand sketched a salaam. Then the man plunged right in. "O greatest of Sultans, the monarchs of the Spanish allowed their army neither rest nor recovery at Baza for they gathered their troops and followed on Cidi Yahye's heels, the King leading the army forth from the gates of Baza, the lady Queen herself riding with a few of her train to hold together the rear. The route along the spine of mountains and through the passes of the Sierra Nevada toward Almeria is torturous in winter, many of the passes winding and narrow, hardly room enough for eight men abreast..." The deserter caught up his breath for a moment and then flung himself on his knees before Boabdil and cried passionately, "O Grand Sultan, if only a handful of our own courageous warriors had but earlier occupied the mounts above each of these high passes the whole Christian army could have been decimated, crushed by the hundred in deliberate falls of rock, showered upon by rains of arrows, bolts, and shot, we could have—"

  Comixa impatiently jabbed him in the back with the toe of his shoe. "But we didn't. Therefore relate the facts. Do not waste our time."

  The haggard rider hung his head, but continued, "Those peaks soar into the clouds, the valleys are so deep the sun scarce reaches there. The wind roared bitter cold down the ravines. The army rode through dense snowfalls and camped upon barren rock, and having started in fatigued condition many men as well as horse were benumbed and frozen to death, and many lost the trail in the whiteness of the storms and were only saved by the Marquis of Cadiz, who caused beacon fires to be lit and sustained from the loftier points about the main group."

  "Yes, yes, but get to the point." Comixa scowled. "A few frozen infidels more or less make little difference."

  The Morisco eyed the Sultan's unreadable face as if to gauge his state of temper, for innocent bearers of bad news sometimes suffered unjust consequences. But he went on. "Finally, outside of Almeria, El Zagal and his caballeros met the Christian Monarchs and... and surrendered upon restatement of the lenient conditions offered to him and his people; and together, the victor and the vanquished, they entered the city. The Christians took some rest for a few days and then continued on, turning north to Gaudix, which also threw open its gates, and from whence I fled."

  "And why came you here, since you had already lightened your captivity by serving as guide to the enemy's forces?" Boabdil asked in a tense, quiet voice.

  The man was frightened and trembled, but tears stood in his bitter, tired eyes. "I could no more stand the shame of such defeat, O Excellence, nor bear the trampling in the dust of the almighty Koran. I ran away to bring you the true tale, to beg to be taken into the avenging army of the true Prophet...."

  The unsaid words—"which can be launched by you, Grand Sultan, the richest and strongest hope of repelling the invaders of our homes and land"—these words hung in the air, louder than silence as the eyes of Comixa, the Morisco, and furtively, even the guards, leveled upon Boabdil.

  The Boabdil waved his hand in brusque dismissal. "Take him out. Give him food and give him over to serve with the leanest troop." He held tight control over his voice. The rider was hustled out by the guards.

  The moment they were alone Boabdil bounded past Comixa with a shout of joy like a man released from a cage. He ran to the grilled window and threw up his arms to the sky in a transport of delight, hardly remembering when he had been so happy. "Allah! Allah akbar! God is great, God is good. He has plucked from my shoulders the most venomous reptile of all. Rejoice with me, Yusef, the stars have eased their persecution; henceforth I am Boabdil the Fortunate, for Allah guides my destiny onto grassy paths." He swiveled back to Comixa. "Now I reign without a rival. Now there will be peace in our land, finally."

  Boabdil stood there feeling puissant enough to tear apart boars, but he saw Comixa remained silent and stern. "Why do you not rejoice? Why does your face wear such gloom? Think, Yusef, we are rid of our enemy!"

  Comixa shook his head. "We are rid of one enemy, Excellence, the greatest, 'tis true, but not the last. A troubled sea is still around us—"

  "And can be smoothed now that the great djinn no longer roils the water. Listen to how the people below are acclaiming me! They have heard the news."

  "Yes, but—"

  Boabdil felt on sure and firm ground. "Gather all my nobles,
Grand Vizier, and order my steed decked in his jeweled trappings. We shall all descend in pomp to receive the tribute of my people. Set the drums to booming, the horns to sounding, I proclaim this day of exultation a holiday, and there shall be dancing in the streets!"

  "Harken to me, O Sultan, the time is not right for such a showing. Let my Sultan defer rejoicings until all has settled into a calm."

  "Nonsense. Your cautious nature ill becomes a triumph, Yusef. We shall ride through the streets and accept the homage of our people while the cruel memories of El Zagal and their deliverance from him are still fresh in their minds. I wish them to see their victorious Sultan among them...."

  His heavily bejeweled mother, Ayaxa, swept into the salon, imperious for all her small stature and flimsy face veil, trailed by gloomy-faced council members. "What?" she cried out, hearing his last statement. "Are you mad, my son? Descend into that ravening horde? Don't you hear what they shout? They are in a ferment of grief, of indignation, they extol Abdullah El Zagal to the skies!" She watched the sensitive, weakly handsome face of the Sultan go pale.

  "Extol him? Impossible. Didn't they abjure him? In hate, in disgust?"

  "So they did, but that was several months ago. Their memories are short. Now it is you who draws their ire."

  "No," Boabdil whispered in shock. "That cannot be true."

  Ayaxa took his arm grimly. "Come. Hear for yourself." She led him out onto a balcony overhanging the city. Now the voices of the people milling in the streets below came to him clearly for there was a throng of them at the gates to the Alhambra, held in order by grunting royal guards flashing wicked scimitars. Boabdil could see them from where he stood at an angle to them and unobserved, shouting and shaking their fists at the palace.

  "Come out, O Sultan, and show us the sword with which you helped El Zagal against his enemies!"

  "El Zagal went to defeat as a warrior, not as a vassal to unbelievers!"

  "Traitor, O Sultan, traitor to rejoice in the defeat of the faithful!"

  White-lipped, Boabdil asked his mother, "What do they mean, 'not as a vassal'? But he has given his allegiance to the Christians. He did not even resist."

  Ayaxa's scarves fluttered behind her in the breeze. "They do not wish to inquire into the particulars. Now they are safe from him they raise up El Zagal into a hero," she explained bitterly. "He always lived by the sword and that is what they remember and admire—so long as it is not directed at them."

  Now they heard muffled thunks as vegetables and stones were hurled against the palace gates. "Boabdil el Zegoybi brings misfortune to Granada!"

  "War upon the Christians! Let us succor our brothers."

  "Down with El Rey Chico, friend to the unbelievers."

  Shrieks and cries and groans arose as a detachment of palace guards poured from the gates and lay around them with scimitars and pikes. Silently the observers filed from the balcony.

  Boabdil threw himself upon the divan, beating his fist upon a pillow. "Why do I break my heart for these savage people with a will like the west wind, blowing first hot, then cold. They love me for the golden advantages of peace I have brought to them, and then they revile me for not plunging them into disastrous war. What, O Allah be Merciful, do they want?" he moaned.

  Comixa attempted to pacify him. "Illustrious Lord, the city is full of refugees, men ruined by war and existing only for revenge, and thousands of disbanded soldiers whose only livelihood is by the sword. These are the hub of the fury raging at the gates. And the nobles who plot against you, they too want war. The merchants, the civil servants, our ordinary householders, they find themselves so stirred up by these violent factions they know not which way to think."

  As he had done many times before, Boabdil turned his eyes toward his loyal old counselor to relieve his indecision. "What shall be done?"

  Comixa sighed. "We wait. Wait until the fury wears itself out. Once the first shock of the capture of Gaudix is past the clamor will subside."

  "And if it does not," cried Ayaxa, "can we hold the Alhambra against the hysteria that surrounds us?"

  Comixa shrugged. He was tired. A dispirited old man.

  But Boabdil stood up with an angry show of determination. "Yes, by Allah, I shall hold my throne! And by the very means that those ingrates below despise. I am still allied to Spain. Ferdinand will come to my aid again if I request it; no one would dare to revolt against our concerted might. No more bemoaning my alliance with the unbelievers. For once I have accomplished a politic act which will prove our salvation."

  "Or our ruination." Ayaxa glared at him, her black eyes burning. "You rely on them too much. Remember, the beetle may cross safely the chasm on the spider's thread, but the spider waits with gaping jaws on the far side! You can yourself unseat your foes. Here are your council members, ready to do your bidding. I say, we say, go to the factious warlords and the restless nobles and bring them to heel with the only gesture that will unite every true Moslem under their one Sultan."

  Again Boabdil directed his gaze at Comixa. His mother always made him feel helpless and inadequate to the situation.

  "War," agreed the Vizier with a stiff nod. "War against the Christians, lord, to gain back our lost territories, and over which you will be the only ruler. We have the manpower, we have the supplies..."

  "We have the might and the courage!" Ayaxa grated.

  "The Sultan of Egypt and the Ottoman caliphs will send us their aid now you reign supreme in Granada. With Allah leading us and our efforts and sacrifice, we can prevail...."

  "No! Speak to me not of war!" Boabdil shouted, backing away from the knot of tormentors standing before him. "That was the way of my father and that way is doomed. Of all Andalusia only Granada remains to the Faithful; only in this one small land can we walk in freedom. And the fates—the fates moan to us that not even that will be ours if we continue the bloody course set at Zahara."

  "But what freedom is there in vassalage?"

  "At least to remain in our land and in our homes. Do you forget the weeping fate of Malaga, whose reward for savage resistance was ruin and slavery and wholesale deportation of its citizenry? The fortune tellers say we cannot win. Shall we wander homeless in the barren hills of Africa and pine for our captured paradise? No, I say. Let us accept the half loaf they offer us and praise Allah for His Mercy."

  One of the counselors asked timidly, "O Sultan, what of the frustrated revolts that may rend this kingdom? We might remain with only the mercenaries, the palace Africans loyal to us."

  "I do not believe that. The people of this kingdom will walk close behind us for there is no one else to lead them. That is my word and so it shall be. Now go and leave me in peace; I wish to think."

  Comixa and the Sultana Ayaxa exchanged exasperated glances. Comixa's scraggly gray eyebrows were drawn into a straight, stern line, but he shrugged. "May Allah bring light to your contemplations, Great Sultan," he rasped. Fingertips to forehead, the Vizier and the council members bowed and retreated from the Sultan's salon.

  Ayaxa was the last to leave. "A mother's warning, O Sultan. Remember the spider." Stiff and straight she glided from the room.

  Boabdil sank exhausted onto the divan. His head ached miserably. There was fear in his heart, a familiar emotion, not for himself but for his people and this lovely land of his forebears. Could one defeat the soothsayers and the wheeling of the stars after all?

  He signaled to the forgotten musicians to resume their playing, and he lay despondent and upset, shredding the golden tassel hanging from a cushion. But the musicians were either incredibly stupid or stupidly brave, and chose the wrong ballade to sing, for which, moments later, the great Sultan shouted them out of the room and banished them forever from his sight:

  Friends, ye have alas to know

  Of a most disastrous blow

  That the Christians, stern and bold,

  Have obtained Alhama's hold.

  Woe is me, Alhama!

  Out then spake old Alfaqui,

&nbs
p; With his beard so white to see,

  "Good Sultan, thou art justly served,

  Good Sultan this thou hast deserved."

  Woe is me, Alhama!

  And from the windows o'er the walls

  The sable web of mourning falls.

  The Sultan weeps as a woman o'er

  His loss, for it is much and sore.

  Woe is me, Alhama!

  Tendilla chose for his frontier headquarters the site of his historic victory, Alcala la Real, an almost impregnable aerie whose ponderous stone castle, supported by great buttresses jutted from the side of the cliff, commanded the main pass through the rugged mountains surrounding Granada. But he kept the impatient Francho firmly on the leash because the most important part of their operation was still missing —a reliable communication line.

  "A plague on these tantrum-prone Granadans," the Count inveighed to Francho. "Had not our excellent courier been killed in one of their typical riots you would have already been in their midst. Now it will take time to find another man who can be trusted to get your messages out."

  "There must be numerous Moors of some Christian lineage who could be bribed to aid us," Francho muttered.

  "Bribed, indeed, but think, Francisco, this requires a very special individual since we will one day be operating under conditions of war. This man must be entirely above suspicion and able to pass through the gates even during hostilities. My agent has singled out such a person in the city and contrived to engage his friendship, but he must be feinted with and cultivated before he can be approached safely."