Chapter VI: Part 6

As many eyes as there were in the hall threw furtive glances at the contracted brows of the arbitrary monarch, whose discordant mood was evident. Whether it was anger, melancholy, or despair, remained to be seen; there was no beam in his face to relieve the gloom. Why that ill-humor on a day dedicated to festive joy? For it was the seventh day after the birth of a royal babe, the day set for the naming and blessing of his new-born child. But the mighty lord of Iran had for six days and nights been stirred by the vivid picture of a dream which caused his blood to run cold as often he recalled its horrifying incidents. His vision was unlike that of Nebuchadnezzar, who saw a human form fashioned of various metals shattered by a fragment of rock. Chosroes thought that he was roaming through one of his delightful gardens, teeming with singing birds and delicious fruits, musing over the great victories he had won, and the hoards which filled his vaults with enormous wealth, enabling him to rival the Great Mughul in the luxuries of his court. His only worthy enemy was Rome, and even her power seemed to bend to his will. Might, pomp, royal ease and love were his,--what remained for him to attain but the rule of the entire world? "First Rome, then India!" cried he. But lo! what is that? A grim _tower of silence_ so near his marble palace, how did it come there? He had never seen it there ere this. The towers of silence, where the fire-worshippers expose their dead to be denuded of flesh by carrion vultures, earth being too sacred to be polluted by the decay of human flesh, are usually located in remote groves, preferably on hills haunted by the carnivorous bird; here was one in the vicinity of the royal palace,--since when?--and by whose order built?

Chosroes turned his eyes toward the top of the dismal building to account for the voracious swarm of vultures that circled around it, as though a corpse had been there deposited, and great was his horror to see the flock make towards him. In his confusion he tore a twig from a tree to beat off the pest; blood flowed from the tree thus wounded; the obscene swarm disappeared, the tower vanished, and when he looked at the twig in his hand, he soon accounted for its great weight by finding it to be a sceptre of gold, adorned by leaves of resplendent stones. Then he became conscious of a ravening hunger, which to satisfy, Chosroes put forth his arm to pick the nearest fruit; his touch petrified it into a transparent jewel. Repeated attempts had the same result. Tormented by hunger, the king sent his eye in every direction in the hope of help. Redoubled terror seized him on perceiving that the entire garden turned into a wilderness of blinding glitter. A lamenting breeze passed through the lifeless masses of stiffened green frozen into stone,--tree, fruit and blossom fiercely reflecting the glare of the sun. The wind was the only thing that moved, whining like a ghost that passed to eternal perdition. Thirst followed hunger; the deluded victim turned to a cool spring to find the precious liquid therein crystalized into solid diamonds.

"_Ahura-Mazda_, if this be an evil work of the _devas_, then send _Vohu Mano_, _Ashem_ and _Armaiti_ to lead me into thy light! O, thou who didst create my being in accordance with thy wisdom!" prayed the humbled Shah, consumed by the double torment of hunger and thirst.

A diabolical laugh made the nightmare hideous; it came from a monstrous shape hidden behind a tree, a winged dragon with the head of a man, the head of one in the royal family. Recoiling from that frightful apparition, Chosroes tried to flee, but was intercepted by the same flock of carrion fowl who, returning, lighted on him like so many fiends, lifting him bodily from the ground, and carried him to the funereal grating on the top of the tower of silence, which seemed to have again cropped up from the ground. The agony of being torn to pieces roused him from the horrid nightmare, breathing heavily and trembling all over.

The first object that met his eyes was the court master-of-ceremonies, who, with arms folded and head inclined, informed his majesty of a new royal birth. Shirin, the envied and most favored sultana of his thousands of wives, had the selfsame night been delivered of a female child, as beautiful as is the blushing cheek of _Arustra_. The coincidence of a child's birth with what he could not help accepting as a portent of some catastrophe to come was not to be dismissed by a Zarathustrian to whom the whole universe was one vast battlefield contested by the hostile armies of Ormuzd the good, and Ahriman the evil. Yet instead of consulting the wisdom of the Magi, high-priests unerring in their interpretations of dreams and casting of nativities, Chosroes had concluded to wait until the seventh day after the confinement when it is the custom of the votaries of Zarathustra to have the child named by a priest, and its horoscope cast. That there might be no preconcerted deception practiced by the shrewd Magi, a secret order had been issued by the king to three different fire-temples, far apart, for the head of the local priesthood to report at court on a day named, and the Zarathustrotema received a call of a similar nature. Thus did it come about that the throne-hall of Chosroes Nushirvan wore that awful solemnity of pregnant suspense which passed down from the head of the empire to those who stood uninformed and powerless at the foot of his throne.

"Know thou, great head of Iran's light-worship, whom Ahura-Mazda illumined, that my calling thee hither has a high purpose to be presently divulged. From the fire-temples of Ardashir and Kanjak I had the wisest _dasturs_ summoned to appear before me this day to read the stars in behalf of a little daughter to be named Arzemia. Chosroes Nushirvan ordains it that his daughter's horoscope be cast this hour by three of the wisest Magi, each one unknown to and unenlightened by the other. Thy presence, Zarathustrotema, shall wisdom add to wisdom, should some deep remain unfathomed," spoke the ruler in a nervous voice.

Hereupon a venerable priest was ushered into the royal presence. After paying the proper homage, the Magian unrolled a parchment bedecked with hieroglyphics, drew various lines thereon with a rod in his hand, then, with his eyes turned toward the zodiacal figures set in motion on the firmament of the hall, he began:

"The god-stars under whose auspices thy new-born child came to this world show me a field of light on a background of impenetrable night. I see a career of strength and beauty, beams of sunshine swallowed by seas of darkness. The god-stars favor Arzemia, O king, with more than woman's grace and royal fame. Among immortal queens thy daughter will stand high; but length of years _Mazda_ denies her; lest she rule and build, like Semiramis, Ninevehs, Babylons, hanging gardens, and towers piercing the skies. With her, Iran's might and fame will blossom new, but there is a floating chaos back of all,--red lightning, bleeding armies, wrecked kingdoms and fallen thrones. The god-stars reveal an era of triumph, drawing up one of crime, tears, woe, blood and ruin."

The next horoscoper assumed the air of one entranced by the adumbrations of his dark prophecy, which ran thus: "The powers of _Angro Maniyush_ stand arraigned against the seed of Chosroes Nushirvan. Born under Cleopatra's constellation, the child named Arzemia will exceed Egypt's enchantress in the quality which makes woman sovereign, and the witchery which makes kings her slaves. A dark veil hides the rest; let it remain unlifted.--Iran's destiny breaks on my vision in streaks of splendor dimmed by thunder-clouds rising from the eternal abyss."

"Arzemia's fate," cried the third prophet of evil, "is intertwined with that of the Sasanian dynasty. Like Tadmor's queen, she will rule over a mighty empire in combat with one yet mightier. But not like Zenobia's will be the end of her career. Trembling seizes me as I behold Iran's great tragedy, which _Ahura-Mazda_ wrote in the book of fate, preceded by an era of triumphs unequalled in the Orient's tale. In the distance I hear the evil spirits whisper things to come, which my lips shall not articulate. Why conjure night while the sun is at his zenith?--Rome is not thy deadliest foe, O, Chosroes Nushirvan; beware of a serpent in thy bosom."

The echo of "in thy bosom" vibrated in the monarch's ear, the silence of the throne-hall being unbroken by a breath, so fearful was the impression left by the weird astrologers. With ill-disguised alarm Chosroes turned his look on the face of the Zarathustrotema, whose mien betrayed evidence of anxiety.

"Why sees the one not what the other sees, the god-stars being there unchanged? They prophesy a queenship like three others and unlike,--where the congruity? Lift up the veil, that certainty dispel all doubt. If Persia's downfall be decreed on high let the horoscope be unambiguous; give me truth," commanded the autocrat.

"When, since Zarathustra's blessed age, did _Ahura-Mazda_ bestow of his purest light on a mortal, O, king of kings? The god-stars foreshadow our fate, they do not unequivocally foretell it; and man may well be grateful for the doubt that leaves hope to feed his dreams. Horoscopy shows that the zodiacal signs under which Arzemia beheld light indicate qualities of sovereignty common to those three famous queens, leaving much unsolved to cherish bright probabilities. Benign _Mazda_, lest impending evil mar the joy of the happier hour, withholds the secrets of futurity from our eye. Let not, I beseech thee, future events overcast thy glorious horizon. Proceed with thy triumphant march, while we, guardians of the sacred fires, pray for the success of thy arms. If fall we must, then let us fall great. Let thine empire grow with Arzemia, her mind be irradiated by the wisdom of Zarathustra, and her heart be stirred by the emulation of Babylon's immortal queen," closed the primate of Iran appealingly.

With an irrepressible presentiment dominating his being, Chosroes sought relief in the vortex of a reckless activity, and his still swelling tide of fortune began to weaken the apprehension that he was laboring under the frown of unauspicious god-stars. His cupidity seemed to grow with the incessant influx of treasure sent by the chiefs of his victorious armies, largely engaged against the forces of the Roman emperor, Heraclius, and nothing was too costly which tended to gratify his fondness for display.

The dreaded auxiliaries of the Persian army were several cohorts of drilled elephants. Each division of troops had its elephantine accompaniment, but the fifty thousand "golden spears" relied for effective pioneer work on fifty of those prodigious tramplers led by a white mammoth called Mahmud, the same who, in times bygone, carried the Ethiopian king, Abraba, when he invaded Mecca. Mahmud was elevated to the rank of a general, and he acted his part with a dignity and a foresight worthy of a distinguished strategist. His command was trained to follow their chief in all he did, to eject volumes of water and mud, stored up for the purpose in their capacious receptacles, into the eyes of the enemy; to use the proboscis to good advantage, to crush out life and to break the serried files of an advancing foe. Mahmud's onslaughts paved the way for many a victory, and no officer of Iran's great army enjoyed more consideration and affection than that intelligent brute. Whether at home or in the camp, Mahmud's quarters and attendants were as sumptuous as those of the other generals, while his gold-bestrewed robe was of the finest silk, and embroidered with precious stones.

With this inbreaking engine, of a resistless momentum, as a wedge for an enormous host, swelled by new levies and animated by dashing generals, Chosroes Nushirvan not only wrested Asia Minor from the Roman grip, but had his banner carried as far as Libya, Egypt and Carthage. In the ample vaults of his white palace the insatiate king received and hoarded the spoils of nations, exhibiting only valueless trophies for the edification of the populace and a disaffected nobility. In his domestic relations the lord of Iran was an unjust father, a tyrant, a poltroon, and a pompous braggart, owing his power and prestige to the bravery of his generals; but conspiracy was lurking where he least suspected it.

The stir and clash of armies and the overthrow of kingdoms did not disturb the early childhood of Arzemia, who, in the retreats of the imperial harem, blossomed into adorable maidenhood, endowed with talents of the highest order and a thirst for knowledge seldom heard of in Oriental courts. Infatuated with his charming daughter, Chosroes lavished treasures in surrounding her with all the luxuries of a queen, and provided a staff of wise heads to imbue her with the essence of Zarathustrian, not less than secular, wisdom. At the age of sixteen Arzemia astonished the court by her appearance at her father's side in the hall of audience. Robed in a purple dress, with a blaze of gems in the shape of a heart on her left breast, and a sparkling tiara on her head, the enthroned princess looked more like a goddess than a maiden prematurely developed. To the courtiers at the foot of the throne she appeared an image of a dream, perfect in form, ineffably beautiful, and divinely self-sufficient, her eyes darting those arrows which strike the incurable wound.

It was a great gala day. Among the trophies laid before the throne, was the true cross brought by the famous general who had taken Jerusalem; and a slip-shod envoy from the interior of Arabia was to be heard,--the main object, however, being the debut of Shirin's adorable daughter.

"Is it homage or tribute that thou bringest hither from my slaves in Arabia?" asked Chosroes of an uncombed Bedouin in sluttish habit.

In lieu of answer, the Arab impassively delivered a missive in writing, and gave no sign that the splendor of the scene overawed him. Translated, the message read: "In the name of the most merciful God! Mohammed, son of Abdallah and apostle of God, to Chosroes Nushirvan, king of Persia--"

"Hold, fool! What do I hear! Does a savage slave of the desert dare put his name before mine in writing?" cried the autocrat in great anger, seizing the document and tearing it to pieces.--"Get this dog out of my sight, and write to my satrap in Yemen that there lives a madman in Medina who claims to be a prophet; if he cannot cure him, let him send me his head."

With this incident closed a scene that had been fraught with vast consequence for Iran, and with not less significance for Arzemia. Henceforth visions different from those that haunted her brain in the harem's privacy invaded her imagination. There had been eyes in the hall of a glow and a sympathy so passionately contagious that the entire being seemed irrevocably absorbed in that enchanting look. It was a woman's first passion, which she was unable to analyze. Before that event her active spirit, if not engaged in fathoming the mysteries of Zarathustra, delighted in the weaving of fantastic tissues, with heroes and heroines as the forerunners of her future greatness. Destined by the god-stars to wear a crown, what, with Iran as her heritage, could prevent her from eclipsing the achievements of Semiramis? The entire world then lay prostrate at her feet; kings and Cæsars would worship her. Why not rather be a goddess than the mate of a mortal, even if he be a Ninus, an Antony, or an Odenatus? Why not shine like blessed _Mithra_, who illumines the heavens unmated? "Be one man's inferior companion rather than the awe and adoration of the great world? This was thy folly, ill-fated Cleopatra, and thine, nobler Zenobia; but the child of Derceto proved herself worthy of her divine mother, and Arzemia shall not be less than Semiramis, with no Ninus to divide her empire," were the last words of a reverie overheard by Shirin. And the sultana thought it high time to draw the budding maiden into the open world. Her period of childhood was ended.

"Thou knowest, my lord, that our child's angelic beauty is far exceeded by the brilliancy of her mind; that she has mastered the languages spoken by the great nations, and the wisdom taught by the Magi; but since, obeying thy behest, I cautiously gave her some intimation of her horoscope, I perceive a change in her demeanor which gives me much concern. Seeking the lonely haunts of our gardens, Arzemia acts as though she held communion with spirits, discoursing on the hollowness of love, and dreaming of a superhuman destiny reserved for her by the god-stars. _Ahura-Mazda_ has granted us the blessed child to cheer our later years. Our daughter is a harp strung to charm discord and to scatter gloom, not to be untuned by disuse. May the fearful _devas_ pass her, who roams in realms too visionary to be safe!" prayed the scheming sultana, sure of her game.

"What wouldst thou have me do, Shirin? Give her in marriage to the man whom Chosroes honors most?" asked the father imperiously, early marriage being compatible with Zarathustra's moral teachings.

"Not now, my lord; let the child see the court, the court see her, before the question of love is broached," suggested the emboldened sultana.

"Sultana, it was my pleasure that exalted thee above the fairest of my harem, and thy son above his brothers; it is love's triumph, and thy daughter, favored by the god-stars, shall be favored more than ever princess was. Arrayed like _Arustra_, she shall receive her first homage at my side," promised the autocratic sire. And so did Shirin once more triumph over her rivals in royal grace.

Thus drawn into publicity at her mother's initiative, Arzemia dazzled the court with her houri-like graces not less than her imperial bearing. Here it was, however, that the girl's heart received the winged arrow from love's unerring bow, shattering all foregone imaginings as a spire smitten by lightning. It was as though a curtain had risen to reveal a magic scene with one fascination greater than all the others--and he a man whose like could well account for love like Zenobia's, and madness like Cleopatra's. In frame but little above the average, otherwise a figure reminiscent of the war-god whom the Olympians feared; unhandsome, but imposing; complexion olive, nose aquiline, eyes deep, black, flashing but mild; chin hidden by a beard, raven black; heavy hair and mustache harmonizing with the beard; thick, arched eyebrows; a curling, sensuous lip; shapely feet, shapelier hands; the whole in the attire of a Persian general. Such was Shahrbaraz to whose talents Chosroes was largely indebted for his most valuable conquests. Covered with glory, cumbered with royal favors, flattered by the courtier, idolized by the army, and lionized by the people, the general had hardly anything to wish for when Arzemia's eye met his; then all other ambitions paled before the one, all-devouring passion to kneel in tender worship before her who looked so much more divine than human.

That was Arzemia's day of destiny, and it did not close without an incident which alarmed both king and court. The cause was a sealed document found before the celebrated grand portal of Chosroes Nushirvan's white palace, warning the monarch that a plot was ripe to overthrow him by a sudden blow, and that the bodyguard was implicated in the nefarious conspiracy. Prompt action was urgent, and Chosroes, frightened out of his wits, summoned his bravest general to take temporary charge of his capital and palace. Shahrbaraz pledged himself to continued vigilance until the conspirators should be brought to grief--"Within the walls of Ctesiphon are twelve thousand golden spears; twenty-five thousand more are within the courier's call; let not thy peace be disturbed, oh, my sovereign; Shahrbaraz will not sleep," spoke the resourceful strategist with an inward laugh, and proceeded to arrange matters to suit himself.

Unaware of the cause which stirred the authorities of the court, the people wondered at the feverish activity of the military. Large bodies of troops moved out, larger ones moved into the fortifications of the splendid city, so that with the descent of night every access to the palace was under strong guard, and Ctesiphon presented the aspect of a besieged place, prepared to repel an aggressive enemy. What was going to happen that night?

As to Arzemia, untouched by this wave of commotion, she abandoned herself to an overmastering passion, burning to the core of her fiery nature; and, succumbing to the fever of her soul, she fled the confinement of her sumptuous bed-chambers to seek the cooling breeze in the garden, a separate enclosure within the royal park. It was night, and the darkness was hardly broken by the thin crescent of the new moon, when the princess nimbly picked her way to a sequestered nook on a terrace whence in daylight an extensive view of the pleasure-ground was afforded. Here in a recess was an arbor furnished exquisitely, and here, in the posture of supplication, the maiden invoked the help of Zarathustra's revealed Power--_Ahura-Mazda_.

"Thou, eternal _Ahura-Mazda_, the god of gods, the creator of light, who furtherest throughout all space the good and the true, the holy and the beautiful,--and ye bright ministers, who yearn to do his bidding,--if what I feel as fire burning in my heart is love by heaven kindled, then let no barrier stand between the one for whom I burn and me,--yea, no longer than the time required for two wind-lashed flames to rush together and melt in one celestial blaze. Messengers of _Ahura-Mazda_, my message carry to him whom fate has named my lord; bend ye walls, be deaf ye watchmen, that he who loves Arzemia fly hither unhindered!"

There had been a mysterious gleam on the lower balconies of the palace; it flared up, vanished, reappeared again, and once more; and then nothing was seen or heard save at the postern of the garden, where the signal must have been looked for and understood. Swift as a hind there sped from the mazes of the darkened palace a human figure athwart the semi-tropic thickets of the grounds, admitted another one through the rear-gate, whispered a few syllables, and returned to the white pile of a thousand apartments hushed in perfect silence. The intruder, obviously informed of the whereabouts of his object, glided like a ghost toward Arzemia's retreat, and stood enchanted by the voice which articulated the essence of his highest felicity. Hardly did the last word die on her lip when the problematic person sank on his knees and, inclining his head as in adoration, spoke in a tone thrilling with passion, "Divine child, whom _Ahura-Mazda_ graces with the light of his countenance, grant me the privilege to worship at thy feet, an humble supplicant, my heart being thine, my soul thine--forever thine."

The frightened maiden would have screamed for help had not the voice she heard recalled a succession of notes that were still ringing in her ears. In a second she realized what she trembled to believe possible.

"And who art thou, most daring of men, who fearest not to invade the inviolable privacy of Chosroes Nushirvan's daughter?" cried the maiden in fluttering apprehension, dreading the realization of her prayer.

"Forgive! I am not what I was before thine eye smote me with madness to be thy votary--thy slave,--or not to be at all," was the answer.

"_Ahura-Mazda!_ thou the man whom Iran honors--thou, Shahrbaraz?" cried the girl.

"Thy servitor, thy slave in eternity," was the appealing reiteration.

"The auspicious god-stars brought thee hither. Oh! but humble not Arzemia in thus humbling thyself; the god-stars have linked our fates and, come what may, I am thine, yea, and thou art mine in eternity!" exclaimed the enraptured maiden.

"My heaven!" was the laconic ejaculation of the great soldier who, leaping to his feet, embraced her rapturously, pressing her to his heart.

As if in hymeneal sympathy with love's delicious union, the bulbul poured forth a stream of soul-stirring song, the sweet cadence calling forth responsive notes from the thick of sylvan recesses. Tears flowed from the eyes of Arzemia and fell on the face of her lover, who raised her like an infant in his mighty arms, covering her cheeks with passionate kisses.

"Thy tears of bliss will make the angels weep in paradise, sweet goddess," whispered Persia's world-renowned hero.

"The bulbul!--I never heard the bulbul sing so sad, so sweet, so prophetic; ah! it seems to sigh and weep and speak to my heart of things words cannot express! Some spirit moves it to move our hearts," breathed Arzemia with emotion.

"Thou art creation's sympathetic harp, responsive to spiritual harmonies lower natures fail to realize; the bird's melody is to me an unmeaning song, but in thy voice I hear _Mazda's_ music which moves the heavenly spheres," said Shahrbaraz softly.

"It is bliss to receive tribute from the lip of love; but what a thing am I, compared with thee, Iran's pride, who smote the Roman and took his holy city! Who has done a greater deed? If the armies of Chosroes were thine, wouldst thou not conquer the world?"

"I have conquered earth and heaven, star of my felicity; thou being mine, what remains in all the worlds to wish for? To smite the Roman and take his holy city was less an achievement than to come near to thee, the pearl of beauty, reached at greater hazard than he faces who dives into the ocean's abyss in quest of treasure," affirmed the general.

"Alas, thou art right! O, gods!--Thy life, thy dear life--shouldst thou be found at this hour with me at this place! Dearest, what power enabled thee to pass the guards, whose heads would answer for thy presence where the king alone has right?--Go hence, O, my soul's adorer, my heart's adored, go hence, lest the _devas_ thwart our happiness! I hear the friendly spirits whisper--depart," urged Arzemia, awaking to the danger that beset her lover under the circumstances.

"Thy prayer, child of light, that bade the walls to bend and the watchmen to be deaf,--yea, and love, whom Orpheus followed to the world of shades, have leveled my pathway hither, fearless of fate. They who enter heaven laugh death to scorn. Thy presence renders me invulnerable to mortal steel. Ah! waste no second, cherub, in the thought of death or danger," cried Shahrbaraz ardently.

"Forbid it, _Ahura-Mazda_, that Iran's glory be smitten by a treacherous hand!--Yet play not with the envious fates, lest they grow jealous of Arzemia's bliss, who would no heaven take for what is here on earth," cried the girl appealingly.

"Let all thy cares henceforth be mine, divine Arzemia. My 'golden spears' hold every fort and gate, and have no will but that of thy Shahrbaraz, who could be king this hour were he inclined. To come near thee I had to act my part unfair or fair; love knows no scruples. A scheme devised by me and taken seriously by the king gave me control of Ctesiphon and court," explained the strategist.

"The god-stars rule that I be queen one day and thou my king; my Ninus thou, I thy Semiramis, with Rome and Iran prostrate at our feet!--Ah, there a light!" exclaimed the girl in alarm, her eyes having caught a glimmer in the palace.

"It is the signal for me to begone," said Shahrbaraz, and a moment later the postern closed behind him, having given and received the kiss that is a taste of Elysian rapture.

The clandestine intercourse between the greatest general and the fairest princess of Iran was thus carried on for a time, when revolutionary changes threw Ctesiphon into confusion. Chosroes Nushirvan's court was a hotbed of intrigue, and his harem a seething caldron, overflowing with all the vices and evils engendered by arbitrary rule. Among the host of jealous females under the roof of the palace, Shirin, the Christian sultana, had the upper hand, having charmed her lord to the extent of disinheriting and imprisoning Kavadh, the legitimate heir to the throne, in favor of her son Mardanshah. But a turn of the wheel gave Kavadh the reins of government, and his first act was to drag his wretched father into his vaults of uncounted treasures, and let him perish there of hunger. Seventeen brothers were next executed to insure the rule of the monstrous parricide. These fearful crimes were inspired less by vengeance than--who would have dreamed it?--by Kavadh's vehement passion for Shirin. But the distracted sultana recoiled with loathing from the murderer of her husband and her son, and when the miscreant resorted to force he held a bleeding corpse in his arms, the sultana having ended her life by a self-inflicted wound. Arzemia was her only surviving child, and Shahrbaraz knew how to provide for the safety of his worshipped princess. Shortly after Kavadh fell.

During the chaotic conditions which followed the fall of Kavadh, Shahrbaraz matured a plot for the usurpation of Iran's sovereignty. Sustained by his fifty thousand golden spears, and favored by Arzemia's friends, the dashing general entered Ctesiphon in triumph, and had himself crowned in the palace of the voluptuous Chosroes. When it transpired that Arzemia not alone favored the usurper, but was going to be wedded to him in the imperial fire-temple, her many suitors combined in organizing a conspiracy, headed by Faruch-Zad, the mighty satrap of Khorassan, who was desperately in love with the princess. Shahrbaraz was assassinated on the day set for his wedding, his body was mutilated and dragged by an ass through the streets of Ctesiphon. Arzemia's horror was scarcely exceeded by her sorrow and her vengeance; and her opportunity was not slow in coming, being called to the succession of her father's throne, when Faruch-Zad urged his suit with obtrusive audacity. Policy forced her to smile on the man she hated, while her armies were engaged in the fateful struggle against the now all-conquering hordes of overflowing Islam. Impatient of delay and tortured by uncertainty, the satrap of Khorassan resolved to take by force what was denied him by favor. But the queen's friends learned of the plot; Faruch-Zad's followers were overpowered at the portal of the palace, and he was arraigned as a traitor before the one whose hatred for him could hardly be surpassed by his love for her. Arzemia blessed the gods for the chance thus afforded her to avenge the murder of Shahrbaraz. She apostrophized the culprit with bitter contumely, and had him executed under most cruel circumstances.

Faruch-Zad was not dead an hour when tidings from the battlefield spread consternation in the court. The golden lances, long held to be invincible, sustained a crushing defeat at the hands of Islam's votaries, and among the slain was Mahmud, the intelligent elephant, who bled to death through a wound struck at the extremity of his trunk. Mahmud's fall was generally accepted as prophetic of worse things to follow, and Arzemia, seeing her empire crumbling, turned to the Magi for an ungarbled version of her horoscope which was kept for reference in the royal archives. With fatalistic resignation the youthful queen listened to the dark prophecies associated with her birth, and insisted on having her father's dream read to her, it having been kept on record with the documents of her nativity. Deeply impressed by the fearful purport of her sire's vision on the night of her coming into this world, and remembering its ghastly realization in subsequent developments, Arzemia exclaimed resignedly, "It is _Ahura-Mazda's_ immutable decree that Iran's ancient glories fade with me at whose birth the god-stars frowned. Were it not better for Arzemia not to have been born?"

The queen had hardly uttered these words when an ominous noise in the royal courtyard caused her armed guard to rush toward the entrance of the palace. Here they were met by a desperate band of conspirators led by a relative of Faruch-Zad. The encounter was short and decisive. Arzemia fell into the hands of the avenger of the dead satrap, was tortured with refined cruelty, and put to death ignominiously.

Thus perished the noblest and most virtuous sovereign lady of one of the greatest empires which succumbed to the sword of Islam.

THE STUDENT OF TIMBUCTU.

At the close of the year 1578 the slave-markets of Mauritania were glutted to their uttermost, and for once the price of a male slave was less than that of a donkey. This overstock of human ware was due to the thousands of prisoners who had survived the fateful battle fought in the neighborhood of Al-Kesar Kebir, on the banks of the Elmahassen, between the invading army of Dom Sebastian, the youthful, overbearing monarch of Lusitania, and the host of Muley Abd-al-Melek, the formidable Emir-al-Mumemin, the Commander of the true believers, the _Seedna_ or lord of the Moorish Empire.[10]

[10] This battle and the fate of Dom Sebastian as narrated in
this tradition agrees with historical fact.

The Moslem's cruelty to his Christian slaves rose in proportion to the latter's decline as marketable articles, and fanaticism revelled in the daily spectacle of crusaders doomed to immurement, because of their refusing to embrace Islam by uttering the _Fatha_. The irony of the historic whirligig showed itself in the fact that the Catholic Auto-da-fè had its counterpart in the frightful doom of a king and an army led by the flower of his nobility, who, barely a hundred miles from the coast of their kingdom, had to choose between apostasy or being immured alive for the edification of the vengeful Moor. The wretches were compelled to prepare their own graves, usually cells in the city's wall, one Christian bricking up his fellow only to be in turn entombed alive himself.

A melancholy distinction was reserved for the royal zealot, Dom Sebastian, who had encountered crushing defeat and humiliation. With less than half of his smitten chivalry and valiant soldiers he saw himself in the power of an inexorable foe, himself wounded and in chains pining in the vile dungeon of Mequinez, one of the Sultan's capitals, the others being Fez and Morocco. After the obsequies of the unmourned _Seedna_, who had died on the field of battle, his son and successor, having been proclaimed Sultan, and crowned in the holy shrine of Mulai Edris at Fez, proposed to celebrate his coronation by the entombment alive of the Christian king who had invaded his father's empire, notwithstanding the warning of the late _Shereef_ that the unjust inroad would surely land the aggressors in ruin. His Majesty furthermore remembered the treacherous proceeding of Sebastian, who, at the end of the decisive battle, had caused a white flag to be displayed, but had broken the truce by throwing himself with fifty of his knights into the thick of the Moorish ranks, causing slaughter and consternation, and resulting in the death of the late Sultan.

But the strongest motive of the young _Shereef's_ dire vengeance was the unaccountable loss of his sire's priceless crown, which Muley Abd-al-Melek was in the habit of carrying with him whithersoever he went, wearing it on solemn occasions. Muley had worn the crown upon his head while the great battle was being fought, after which that invaluable symbol of imperial grandeur was not to be found. The crown was an heirloom traced back to the great Caliphat of Omar, whose victorious general Saad had acquired it with the enormous treasures of the Chosroes. It was worn by Chosroes Nushirvan in the throne-hall of his grand palace in Madayn, the capital of ancient Persia, and its incalculable value had been further enhanced by a rare jewel which the Emperor Heraclius had sent Omar as a present.

Such were the cumulative incentives to one of the most cruel executions devised by human atrocity. And the tortures also inflicted by order of the new _Seedna_ on his most loyal attendants, such as the _Mul-el-Ma_, who satisfies His Majesty's thirst when in camp from a gazelle-skin; the _Mul Attai_, who prepares the royal tea and serves it; and the most important _Mul M'dul_, the keeper and holder of the _Shereef's_ red umbrella, left the mystery unsolved.

The inhabitants of Mequinez, who since times immemorial furnished the bulk of the Emperor's most devoted servitors, tingled with excitement, and the entire population turned out to witness the burial of a live Christian monarch. From the portal of the imperial mosque issued a train of chosen notables, long-bearded _Kadis_ robed in white flowing raiments, wearing white turbans, red sandals, the _delill_ or prayer book suspended from the belt by a cord of silk; _talebs_, the doctors of law; _emins_, the ministers of the mosque; _adools_, the public notaries; and a train of _fukies_, the all-moving luminaries at whose feet the rising generation of the faithful drink in truth and wisdom. They were joined at the city's gate by another cortege, grotesque and dismal enough to match the gruesome processions of the Inquisition. This was made up of happy juveniles, who struck tom-toms, rent the air with the blare of infernal horns, and accompanied the music with ludicrous grimaces and comical dances, to the great delight of a sympathetic crowd, who swelled the chorus to the pitch of mad vociferation. A hideous negro, broad-shouldered, tall and massive, his frame clothed tightly in black, his eyes blinking dismally from circles of red, with a pointed hat to add several feet to his unusual height, impersonated Azrael the angel of death. Behind this caricature came a donkey whereon was seated the woeful representative of outraged Christian royalty, bare-headed, dressed in a black _jellab_, holding in his right hand a human skull,--a picture of terror and anguish. This was Dom Sebastian, riding to his sepulchre, on his right Monkir, to his left Nakir,--the demons of livid hue, who wake the dead to question him about his faith, and beat him with clubs if unable to stand the examination. The rear of this group was occupied by Eblis, grotesquely attired in red and armed with the implements of hellish torture. A throng of naked, filthy saints ran along howling and spitting at the whilom majesty of Portugal, relegating his soul to the deepest pit, and praying Allah to show no mercy to the Christian dog. Having passed out of the city's gate, the procession advanced along a tortuous road, winding among well-fostered gardens, protected by an outer and much lower wall, toward the spot where a cell about six feet high, but barely wide enough to enclose a human body, stood open in the main wall for the death by suffocation and for the dreamless rest of the fallen king. Too weak to dismount unassisted, Sebastian was rudely handled by Monkir and Nakir, who raised him from his seat, lifted him to the level of the cell, and pushed him inside, turning him with a twist so that the fanatic spectators had a full view of his face. Three wooden bars held the victim against the dead wall.

All eyes were now turned in the direction of the mosque, whence the signal for the closing up of the king's grave was to be given by the firing of a gun and the hoisting of a flag. The ghastly ceremony was so timed that the bricking up of the living tomb coincided with the hour of prayer, so that the boom of cannon and the appearance of the flag streaming to the breeze, was answered by a score of muezzins from the tops of their minarets, who called; "_Allah akbar, Allah akbar_,--God is great, and Mohammed is his Prophet!" The multitude fell prostrate in the dust, sending the _fatha_ eastward to Mecca: "Praise be to God, the Lord of all creatures, the most merciful, the King of the Day of Judgment! Thee do we worship, and of Thee do we beg assistance. Direct us in the right way, in the way of those to whom Thou hast been gracious, not of those against whom thou art incensed, nor of those who go astray."

The echoes of the _Sulhama_ having expired in the air, the faithful rose from their posture of adoration, and the supreme Kadi of the land read this decree: "Hear me, ye worshippers of the true God! The Christian there had planned the downfall of our nation and the uprooting of Islam; but Allah willed it otherwise, decreeing that we deal with him as he meant to deal with us. Our late Seedna--may Allah grant him the joys of paradise--died in his coat of mail, combating that infidel dog, who came as a foe and acted as a traitor, dishonoring his flag. Therefore did our Emir-al-Mumemin decree that he perish ignominiously, like the other slaves who would not recite the _fatha_. May Allah wither the right hand of our Seedna's enemies.--There is no God but God, and Mohammed is his Prophet!"--Slowly bricks and mortar closed up the open side of the upright tomb. One hour later there was no cell to be seen, but a plain wall hiding a monarch quickly choking to death, while the barbarians returned jubilant to the city.

Under the rule of Muley Zidan, a firman, bearing the Grand Vizier's signature, was placarded in every mosque of his domain, promising him who should be instrumental in restoring the lost crown to the ruling dynasty not alone high honors, but the option of leading home as wife any maiden of the empire, from the daughter of the first Sultana down to any damsel within the confines of Mauritania, and the assurance was given that there would be no inquiry as to how the lucky finder had come into possession of the imperial diadem.

As time lent distance to the disastrous crusade and its tragic sequels, a spontaneous crop of tales and legends transferred the former memorable event into the realm of romance. Down to this day the rustic folk of Lusitania look forward to the return of Dom Sebastian, whom they believe to dwell among the Moors in the somnolent state of Barbarossa, while among the tribes of Western Barbary it is popularly current that, owing to unknown causes, the great battle is periodically fought over, always at new moon, the phantom armies engaging each other on the banks of the Elmahassen, and the combat winding up with the historic rout of the crusaders.

Indeed the foolhardy invasion would read like the myth of the Argonauts, had the outcome turned out less crushing to the adventurers. For a youthful king, in the twenties, and of limited resources, to embark on a career of conquest remote from his base of supply, the coveted prize being a warlike empire much larger than the kingdoms of Spain and Portugal combined, an empire which Christendom learned to fear, is so daring an adventure that, but for its unquestioned reality, it could pass as a bit of chivalrous fiction. And the circumstances under which the last encounter took place, the death of the Sultan, the loss of the crown, and the terrible fate of the prisoners, tend much to invest the event with a halo of the mystic and the ghostly.

However, the legendary evolution of that desperate struggle near Al-Kesar Kebir may be traced back to the adventures of a student from Timbuctu, who arrived at Fez at the beginning of the sixteenth century. That was the time when the Fazzi had good cause to boast of cherishing one of the greatest centres of learning in the world. From the valley of the Nile, from the banks of the Congo and the Niger, from populous Europe, darkest Africa, and farthest Asia, the youth of the opulent without distinction of creed and race flocked to the halls of the Kairouin to cull the honey dropping from the lips of inspiration, especially the dimly revealed arcana that teach how to read the signs of the stars.

The Kairouin was then, and is in diminished lustre now, four institutions in one,--the highest school, the largest mosque, the greatest library, and the most hospitable caravansary in the vast regions traversed by the Atlas Mountains. Within the precincts of the Kairouin hundreds of poor students found then not only free shelter and tuition but also food and garments, the cost being defrayed from the ample bequest of the philanthropic Fatma, the original benefactress of that curious university. It embraced a miniature world of the rich and the poor, the learned and the ignorant, the faithful and the infidel, the good and the bad; was the home of every Moslem who had none other; and, among its many good things, was distinguished for an atmosphere of tolerance, peace and cordiality. Even to-day the president of the Kairouin, the _Mokaddun_, whose office is hereditary, treats all as equals, the prince and the beggar having the same right, and that is to take life easy,--very easy. Instances of nervousness from overwork have never been heard of in the Kairouin. Once matriculated, the student is not expected to pass examinations, and is a privileged character, his presence in the city being a source of revenue to its inhabitants. For it should be remembered that among those who come to the Kairouin in quest of wisdom are the sons of the wealthiest _sheykhs_, nobles, and merchants from all the habitable lands which skirt the sands of the Sahara, young lords wrapped in soft silks, bestriding Arabian steeds magnificently caparisoned, followed by retinues of slaves to cater to their physical wants, and harems to beguile their ennui. Nor is, in the chase of romantic diversion, the beautiful Fazzi neglected; the people being inclined to connive at the trivial transgressions of the future pillars of Moslem scholarship. Thrifty parents know how and when to be absent when the young lords from Insala, Nubia, Tunis, Tripoli, Egypt, Taradunt, or Timbuctu are sure to mark their transit through apartments of supposed inviolable privacy by a trail of gold-sand. Such are the traditions of the Kairouin, realized down to this day.

But the student of Timbuctu with whom this tale is concerned was in every way an exception. He disdained luxury, spurned the delights of the harem, consorted with nobody, had but one aged slave to wait on him, dwelt in a tent on a rock in the outskirts of the city, and spent his days among the piles of old books and manuscripts treasured on the shelves of the Kairouin's subterranean library. In the bazaars he was known for years as the student who paid for his purchases in silver or in gold, without ever waiting for the change. He was not handsome. His most remarkable feature was a face strikingly reminding one of the owl's, with orange eyeballs which glowed like living topaz stones. He wore an expression which, once caught, haunted one like an apparition. His white-haired attendant was dumb and moved like an automaton of bronze, leaving one in doubt as to whether he was really a creature of flesh and blood. All that was known about that strange student was that he had come with the great caravan from Timbuctu, that his name was Omeyya, and that he devoted his whole time to researches in works of the occult sciences, such, for instance, as alchemy and astrology, supplementing his inquiries with practical experiments, assisted by his automatic attendant. His was a personality whom the Fazzi liked much less than they feared. Omeyya was left severely alone, but this was just the condition which seemed to suit him. His unique appearance and singular individuality had their origin in his exceptionally romantic birth, and in a career even stranger than his beginning. He grew up as the adopted child of the renowned sibyl Kadijah, whose abode was a cavern near Timbuctu, and who was more shunned than sought by the people of her quarter. To the simple folk Kadijah was known as the "owl-witch,"--rarely met, and then usually during the dusky hour before and after sunset, still more rarely at night; ever in a hurry, with her hair-covered arms flapping like the wings of a scared ostrich. She was in very truth like a hairy owl; weazen-faced, the extremities of her body resembling claws while her face bore every resemblance to that of the owl, orange eyeballs and a nose so pointed, hooked, and beak-like that it partly covered the thin curl of her upper lip. Only in extreme cases of distress did the people of Timbuctu resort to her for help, and her manner of meeting emergencies inspired them with awe. Her most potent specific was the likeness of a long-necked, heron-like bird, crudely drawn with charcoal on a bit of leather, and hung on the breast of the afflicted patient. The cure was assured.

In Kadijah's sombre abode Omeyya came to his consciousness of life, nursed with motherly solicitude, and was later initiated into the secrets of her dark arts. One day, the boy having risen to mature youth, the owl-witch startled him by offering to inform him as to the mystery of his life.

"Thou knowest not who thou art, my son, and my approaching end requires me to let nothing stand between thee and the truth concerning thy legitimate parents. In this place Naïma, the daughter of Moadh, then recognized the strongest arm of Timbuctu, gave thee birth. Thy father's name was Abu Sofian, the heir of Abu Thaleb, whom Moadh had slain in a family feud. When of age, and strong enough to avenge his father's death, Sofian burned to run a steel through Moadh's heart, vengeance being his only thought and prayer. From the flat roof of his mother's home Sofian had a clear view of his foe's terraced habitation, and thither he daily sent his imprecations, determined to break into it at the first opportunity, and make an end of the fierce homicide. The outbreak of a fire in the immediate neighborhood of Moadh's house gave the daring youth his chance. Armed with a deadly weapon, he succeeded in slipping unnoticed into the _Saalemlik_ (reception room) of the hated man. Missing his object here, the son of Abu Thaleb made a dash for the _Haremlik_, resolved to strike down the head of the house in the inviolable seclusion of his wives. His rush was checked by the appearance of a tiny, jewelled, alabaster hand, that swept a silken curtain aside,--and there stood revealed above the frame of a screen a Houri of charms so enchanting that the lad was not sure that he was awake. 'Comest thou to save me from the flames? They are out to watch the fire, and my sire commanded me to await his return; he is a fearful man to be disobeyed,' spoke the girl in excitement; but her voice melted Sofian's heart, and made his eyes to swim.

"'Fairy of the sun, disguise thy beauty in a man's _jellab_ and turban that I may save thee, even if I die in the attempt,' replied Sofian with great presence of mind; and the girlish figure disappeared, to return as that of a stately youth.

"'My name is Naïma, and if thou wilt be the light of mine eyes and the breath of my life, I will be the dust for thy feet to tread upon,' said the metamorphosed maiden, and, favored by the general confusion, they gained the street unobserved. Under Sofian's roof the same day Naïma became his wife; but Timbuctu was too small for Moadh's rage, grief and shame, and the young lovers guarded their secret so well that many weeks passed by before the city was in a furor at the news of the elopement.

"Moadh summoned his kindred to assist him in avenging the outrage; but Sofian was not to be found napping. An armed force of his kith and kin guarded his house day and night against an attack by surprise, while his girl-wife was delivered to my keeping in case of defeat. There was a siege and an assault, and, in the hand to hand struggle that ensued, Moadh met his death at the hand of Sofian, who was in turn mortally stabbed by one of the avengers. The youthful widow remained in my charge, and here thou wast born, thy mother having had nobody to return to or appeal to for protection. Sorrow, shame and remorse caused her to shun the sight of man, so that she would never venture out in daytime, lest someone recognize her and do her harm; for she was hated of all her relatives.

"She did not remain long in my keeping. In an evil hour she left her safe refuge to bask in the morning sun, only to fall an easy prey to the rapacity of marauding Bedouins who, having attacked and plundered the city, lighted on her as they passed this way. My arts could not rescue her, Omeyya, and the daughter of Moadh has changed hands many times since,--a slave or a mistress, just as it suits her master's fancy. This happened nineteen years ago, when thou hadst become my charge, yea, and my comfort.