“Have you not taught me that a Love Slave does not become entangled emotionally with her master, my lord? The wine, I fear, has gone to your head Come, and let us eat something,” she begged him. Why was he doing this to her? Was it some sort of test? She must remain calm.
In answer Karim drew her tightly against him and said in a harsh voice, “I love you, Zaynab. I have not the right, and I should not be such a fool, but when has the heart ever been rational or prudent, my love?” His hand caressed her shining hair. “Allah has finally punished me. It is arrogant of any man to believe he might train another human creature in the arts of love.”
“You have not trained me to love, my lord, you have taught me to give pleasure,” she answered him quietly.
“Tell me you love me,” he pleaded his voice ragged with emotion.
“There is no future in such a love,” she replied coldly. “Have you not made it clear from the beginning that I belong to the Caliph of Cordoba? I cannot be his Love Slave and be in love with you, Karim.”
“And yet you are,” he insisted caressing her cheek.
“Do not do this to us,” she begged him. His touch had wrecked her resolve. “If I love you, how can I bear to leave you in a month’s time? If I love you, how can I live the rest of my life without you? If I love you, how can I belong to another man, Karim, my lord?” He was not drunk on the wine, and she knew it.
“Your body will belong to that man, but your heart will always belong to me,” he responded. “I do not jest, nor do I test you, Zaynab, my beloved. I speak from the heart words I have no right to say. Words that I should have never uttered to you, yet I cannot help myself. My love for you has rendered me helpless to my own moves. I love you, and I shall love you through eternity itself.”
She pulled angrily away from him. “And what good will this love you have for me do, Karim al Malina? I am not yours! I can never be yours! How dare you break my heart like this? Ohh, you are cruel! Cruel! I shall never forgive you!”
“Then you do love me!” he cried, triumphant.
She looked at him bleakly. Tears ran down her beautiful face. “Yes, damn you, I love you! Are you pleased? Is your vanity satisfied, my lord? I swore to myself that I should never say those words to you, but you have forced them from me. How can I now go to the caliph, knowing that I love you, and that you love me? What have you done to us, Karim? We will surely bring dishonor upon those who trusted us.”
He drew her back into the circle of his embrace. “Nay, we will not,” he told her. “We will do what we must. You will go to the caliph, and I will marry a little Berber girl named Hatiba; but before that happens, we will spend a month together here at Escape, just you and I. Whatever our fates after that, we will have a lifetime of love to remember and be comforted by, my beautiful Zaynab of the golden tresses. How could I let you go without knowing the truth? Without ever knowing love?”
“Perhaps it would have been easier if you had,” she said low. “I do not know if I can be as noble and as brave as you, Karim. I am a simple girl from a primitive land. We Celts of Alba know but passion and vengeance in our lives. I thought there was little else, yet you have shown me beauty, and light, Karim al Malina, and a family that loves one another. If God would grant me but one thing, I should wish to belong to you for the rest of my days. To bear your sons and daughters. To become as your mother has become, content with my lot. But you would tell me that you love me, and force the same sentiments from me. Now I shall never be content, my lord. If my fate is to suffer the knowledge of your love, then yours must be to live with the knowledge that I shall never be happy once I have been parted from you. I might have been, Karim, but not now.”
“You cannot be happy knowing my heart goes with you?” he said.
She shook her head. “I shall never be happy away from you.”
“Ahh, Zaynab, what have I done to us!” he cried.
“For all my anger, Karim, I do not care,” she replied “I love you, and we have so little time left. Let us not spend it in recriminations. You have broken my heart, but I still adore you!” She wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him passionately. “I will always adore you, through eternity itself!”
Lifting her up, he laid her upon the bed and gently undressed her. Then removing his own clothing, he lay by her side. Their hands touched fingers intertwining. They stayed that way, silent, for some time, until finally raising himself up on one elbow, he bent his head to kiss her mouth. Her jewel-like eyes regarded him gravely, then they closed as she gave herself over to the sweetness of the moment His hands touched her as they never had before, with an incredible and unbearable tenderness that left her aching for more.
He kissed each tear from her face, and cradled that face in his hand his lips touching her lips, her cheeks, her shadowed eyelids.
Reaching up, she caressed the strong, handsome face, her fingers memorizing each curve, each line, each bit of him. What had she done that such joy and such pain should be given to her? Love was but a terrible misery. She would be glad when he brought her to Cordoba. Glad to be rid of this pain. Surely it would leave her in time, and she would concentrate on all she had been taught She would be the most famed Love Slave ever known. It would be all she would have.
“I love you, my flower,” he murmured in her ear, his breath warm and tickly. He nibbled upon the fleshy lobe.
Turning to face him, she melted and it seemed as if the heart within her cracked. It wasn’t fair! “And I love you, Karim al Malina,” she told him. “Love me, my darling! Ohh, make love to me!”
He answered her cry, filling her with his passion until they both collapsed, entwined, and the new moon rose to lightly silver the lake outside their love bower, while a night bird sang its painfully sweet song.
Part III
AL-ANDALUS
A.D. 945
Chapter 9
Abd-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 an
d 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 Love Slave Page 20