The Love Slave (27 page)

A
bd-al Rahman, Caliph of Cordoba, lay alone in his great bed. Outside his windows the bright dawn was beginning to color the sky. The birds were already singing. Their songs always sounded better in late spring, he thought, than at any other time of the year. Perhaps it was because they were courting. Love made a difference in everything. He smiled. It had been some time since he had been in love. Several years in fact. He was ready for a new adventure, despite the fact that he had passed his fiftieth year.

He knew what they were all thinking. His favorite, Zahra, encouraged such thoughts. It suited her vanity to discourage his younger concubines. He was a father eighteen times over. He was a grandfather. Despite his amorous appetites, which, he had to admit, had eased somewhat over the last few years, he had reigned so long, people were beginning to think of him as an old man. Well, he wasn’t! He had the hard body of a man thirty years his junior, and his hair was still reddish-blond, without a trace of gray. It was spring, and he was ready for a new love!

He stretched, breathing in the sweet morning air.
Today
. What was on his agenda today? Ah, yes, this was the day of the month when he was presented with gifts from grateful subjects, friends, and would-be friends. Mayhap there would be some pretty slave girls among his gifts. Mayhap one of those toothsome creatures would appeal to more than just his lust. It was dubious, but he could hope. Yes! He was ready for a new love.

The door to his bedchamber opened, and his body slave
entered. The day had officially begun. Without any urging, the caliph sprang from his bed and followed his usual morning routine. First he bathed. Then he ate sparingly: a dish of newly made yogurt, a cup of mint tea. Washing his hands and face again, he allowed his nails and his hair to be trimmed. Then he was dressed. Today he wore green and gold, the colors of the prophet—silk trousers, a plain brocade undertunic, a wide jeweled sash, and a bejeweled open coat with wide sleeves lined in cloth-of-gold. A gold dagger studded with emeralds was tucked into his sash. Dark felt boots were fitted upon his feet. A cloth-of-gold turban with a glittering diamond set in its front was placed upon his head. The caliph was now ready to receive his visitors and all the gifts that they would bring today.

His favorite, Zahra, came to wish him a good morning. She was a handsome woman in her late thirties, with beautiful chestnut-colored hair and silver-gray eyes. “Do not let the foreign missions tire you with all their boring talk, my lord. You must take care of yourself for the sake of us all. While I love our son, he will never be the ruler that you are, my dear lord.” She smiled lovingly into his face.

The caliph felt a stab of annoyance. Zahra was a wonderful woman. He loved her, and respected her, but of late she could be extremely aggravating, especially when she persisted in treating him like some white-bearded old man. She had the same effect on him that a grain of sand had on an oyster. “I enjoy the foreign missions, my dear,” he told her, “and who knows what unique gift shall come to me today. Perhaps a beautiful slave girl to entice and capture my heart.” He smiled down into her face, and with satisfaction saw the pique in her eyes. He would not be an old doddard to please Zahra, or their son, Hakam.

Hakam
. There was another difficulty. He was a wonderful young man, but he was more a scholar than a man who would one day be caliph. His interest in books and other literary pursuits was far greater than his interest in women. He had no children, but that was because he spent so little time in the company of his harem. Abd-al Rahman blamed Zahra for that. Her son’s great intellect was her pride, and she had always
encouraged him to study, saying he would have time for women later on, but there she had been wrong. There was never enough time for women in Hakam’s life when there was a new book to be examined and read. Nevertheless, Prince Hakam had of late become more interested in ruling al-Andalus. The caliph put that interest down to his eldest son’s realization that he had six eager, ambitious younger brothers. Still, father and son loved one another, and their relationship was a close one.

The caliph, in the company of his personal guard, made his way to the Hall of the Caliphate. It was a magnificent space with a high, domed ceiling held up by soaring columns of pink and blue marble. The walls and the ceiling were sheathed with sheets of beaten gold. In the center of the ceiling was a huge pearl that had been sent from Byzantium to the caliph by the emperor Leon. There were eight doors of ebony, ivory, and gold that gave entry to the hall. The doors were set between pillars of pure crystal.

In the middle of the floor was a large crystal laver of mercury from the caliph’s mines at al-Madan. At the caliph’s signal, slaves rocked the laver, and the chamber would be filled with shooting rays of light that gave the impression the room was floating in midair. It was a terrifying experience for the unprepared, and an incredible wonder to those who had experienced the effect before. To complete the beauty of the hall, magnificent brocades were hung between the columns, and fine carpets were laid upon the marble floors.

The morning passed pleasantly enough with diplomats and missions from various lands coming forward to present their credentials or proffer their gifts. There was nothing unusual among them, and Abd-al Rahman concealed his boredom. Prince Hakam and the caliph’s favored physician, Hasdai ibn Shaprut, were by his side.

Hasdai ibn Shaprut, a Jew, was a great deal more than a medical adviser. He had come to the caliph’s attention just two years ago by rediscoyering a universal antidote for poison. Poison being a favorite weapon among assassins, this find was hailed gratefully by the rich and powerful. The caliph quickly
discovered, however, that his new friend was also an excellent diplomat and negotiator, in al-Andalus a man’s religion was no barrier to his advancement. Hasdai ibn Shaprut’s elevation into the government was assured.

Abd-al Rahman sat cross-legged upon a wide bejeweled golden throne, made comfortable by the many scarlet satin cushions upon it The throne was topped by a cloth-of-gold and silver-striped canopy. He yawned discreetly behind his hand as the new ambassador from Persia made his way out of the Hall of the Caliphate. The caliph had been sitting for close to three hours. There had not yet been any gift that attracted his interest, only the usual number of racing camels, slaves, jewels, and exotic animals for his zoo. His early morning enthusiasm had palled. Perhaps he would go hawking this afternoon on horseback.

Then the chamberlain announced, “My lord Caliph, a procession of gifts brought to you by Karim ibn Habib al Malina, from the merchant Donal Righ of Eire. These gifts are sent you in gratitude for your friendship.”

The doors directly in front of the caliph opened with a flourish and a herd of elephants began to enter the room. Abd-al Rahman sat up, his blue eyes sparkling with interest. The elephants came two abreast, every animal escorted by a keeper garbed in blue and orange silks. Between each pair of pachyderms was slung a magnificent carved column of green agate. Twenty-four animals lumbered through the huge Hall of the Caliphate, their great hooves pressing into the carpets. At a signal from the head keeper, the beasts stopped, and raising their trunks, saluted the caliph with a strident bellow before moving on and out the other side of the chamber.

“Magnificent!” the caliph enthused, and his two companions agreed.

“What else can this procession offer, that can excel such a spectacle, I wonder?” Hasdai ibn Shaprut remarked. He was a tall, slender man in his early thirties, with warm amber eyes and dark hair. Like his master, he was clean-shaven.

“Indeed, my father, the exit cannot surely surpass the entrance,” Prince Hakam said. He was close in age to the physician, and a serious young man with his mother’s coloring.

“We shall see. We shall see,” the caliph said.

The elephants were followed by slaves carrying twenty bolts of silk, each of a different color, which were unfurled before the ruler; three alabaster jars of rare ambergris; two caskets fashioned from ivory and gold, the first filled with loose pearls, the second with flowering bulbs; one hundred skins of red fox; one hundred skins of Siberian marten; ten white Arabian horses, caparisoned with gold bridles and brocaded saddles; five bricks of gold, and fifteen of silver; and two spotted hunting cats with gold collars on red leather leashes.

Lastly came a litter, escorted by Karim al Malina and Oma. It was carried to the foot of the caliph’s throne, where a magnificent carpet was spread beneath it. The captain stepped forward and bowed low to Abd-al Rahman, as did the serving girl by his side.

“Great lord,” Karim al Malina began, “a year ago I was entrusted with a commission from Donal Righ of Eire. I was to bring you these tokens of his deep respect and great esteem, in thanks for your kindness toward him and his family. I was also entrusted with the education and training of a girl, who is called Zaynab. I am the last of the Passion Masters here in al-Andalus who was trained in Samarkand.” Karim stretched out his hand toward the litter’s closed curtains. “My lord Caliph, may I present to you the Love Slave, Zaynab.”

A slim white arm came forth from the litter, its delicate little hand placed in his.

The caliph and his two companions leaned forward with curiosity.

Oma gently pulled the curtains of the litter aside, and a swathed figure stepped forward. The litter was immediately moved back, so as not to obscure the caliph’s view. The serving girl carefully removed the all-enveloping silk cloak from her mistress and stepped away.

Zaynab stood motionless, head bowed, as she had been taught. Her presentation garments were chosen to entice. She wore a skirt fashioned from strands of tiny seed pearls attached to a wide gold and bejeweled band that rested just below her hipbones, leaving her navel open to view. Her tight short-sleeved
blouse was made of cloth-of-gold. It had a round neck with a charming keyhole opening bordered with pearls, cut to just below her breasts. She was barefoot, but a diaphanous veil of the softest blush silk covered her head, and another veil obscured her features.

Karim al Malina reached out and drew the veil from her head while Oma swiftly loosened her mistress’s hair, allowing it to fall free, spreading it out fanlike that it might display to its best advantage.

Abd-al Rahman could hear his heart beating in his ears. Uncrossing his legs, he rose from his throne and moved down the two steps of the dais to where the girl stood. Unable to help himself, he took a strand of her pale gold hair between his fingers and felt the silky softness of it. Reaching out, he unfastened one side of her veil, tipped her chin up that he might see her face. Her pale lashes lay thick upon her pale cheek. “Raise your eyes to me, Zaynab,” he said softly.

Obeying him, she looked into his face for the first time. He was not even a head taller than she, and was of stocky build. The deep blue eyes staring into her own were contemplative. She was almost relieved, but her beautiful face showed no emotion whatsoever.

The caliph was staggered by what he saw. She was probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her features were perfect: oval-shaped eyes; a straight nose neither too long, nor too short; high forehead and cheekbones. A lush mouth seemingly made for kisses. A square little chin that suggested a touch of stubbornness. Good! He disliked bland women. He smiled, pleased, wondering what her smile was like. Right now, he suspected, she was terrified, although she was too well mannered to show it Gently, he refastened the veil, covering her face, and she lowered her eyes again. Slowly the caliph remounted his throne.

“Donal Righ has outdone himself, Karim al Malina,” Abd-al Rahman said “Remain the night here at Madinat al-Zahra as my guest. My chamberlain will see to your comfort. In the morning I will receive you in private and tell you whether the
Love Slave, Zaynab, pleases me. You will then convey a personal message to my friend, Donal Righ.”

Karim al Malina bowed low to the caliph, and, dismissed, backed from the Hall of the Caliphate. For a single, swift moment his eyes met Zaynab’s, and his heart cracked painfully. He would never see her again. Allah watch over you, my beloved, he called silently to her, but she was already being escorted from the hall.

Zaynab did not speak as she and Oma were led from the Hall of the Caliphate. There was nothing more to say. Her heart was broken, and she would never love again. It was far better that way. She might be young, but she had no illusions left any longer. Karim was gone from her life. Her very survival and that of Oma depended upon the goodwill of a blue-eyed man called Abd-al Rahman. He was not unattractive, she decided, but she had certainly never imagined that he would look quite like he did.

The caliph was not a tall man. Though she was considered tall for a woman, he was barely taller than she was. His garments, of course, had been magnificent. What lay beneath them she could not tell, except that he was a man with a solid build. His eyebrows had been reddish. Was his hair that shade too? She would eventually know, for when he had looked upon her, his frank gaze had told her that he desired her.

They were brought to the women’s quarters of the palace, which was practically an entire building of itself.

“This slave woman and her servant were brought to the caliph as a gift this morning,” her escort said to the eunuch at the door. Then the guardsman departed, his duty done.

“Come in, come in,” the eunuch beckoned them. “I will get the Mistress of the Women. She will assign you and your serving wench bed space. Wait here,” he told them, and bustled off.

Zaynab and Oma looked about them. The pillared hall with its several sparkling fountains was filled with women of all sizes, shapes, and colors. The cacophony of their voices made
it seem like they had been set down into a huge cage of chattering birds.

“
What? Another girl?
” the Mistress of the Women grumbled as she arrived to look Zaynab over with a critical eye. “There are over four thousand females in this place now as it is. How am I to cram another one in, I ask you? Well, you’re pretty enough, but the caliph is not a man in his youth any longer. I suspect you’ll grow old and fat like so many of the others. Let me think where I can put you.”