Beckoned to come along, Jamal ibn Ghulam hurried with Boabdil and his senior advisors to the highest square tower of the palace, where they were joined at the battlements by Ayaxa, a pale Grand Vizier Comixa, ailing ever since the capture of his niece, and various other council members in an agitated state.
Silently, grimly, Boabdil squinted into the distance toward the purple peaks, at what seemed like endless descending silver streams, actually mounted men in glinting armor pouring in proud order from several defiles in the mountains to join into a great, bristling column on the vega. His counselors, muttering nervously among themselves, stared at the enemy multitude debouching from the passes. Finally Boabdil grunted, "I do not understand this. The summer is far advanced and yet the Christian comes with all his might. We will not be drawn out into full-scale pitched battle with him, that he knows. And our walls are too high to be breached and too thick to be pierced, the flaming arrows of our bowmen massed enough to repel rammers."
"He begins a blocking siege, then," Comixa responded through dry, stiff lips. "One suspects he is determined to vanquish us this year."
"He is a fool," Boabdil frowned. "We have stores enough for three cities."
Below them they could see tiers of rooftops filled with excited spectators. Francho could imagine the merchants banging to the shutters of their stalls, the mothers dragging off their children, the mass recitations in the schools cut off in mid-sentence, the streets and marketplaces emptying as if by magic as people reacted to the alarm horns and the cry "The Christians! The Christians!" rising from every side, some running to hide, others racing to the mosque towers for a vantage view of the full enemy force. Looking tiny below, the squadrons at the city gates were being faced with an incoming stream of frightened villagers laden with whatever belongings they could lay hands on, escorted by mounted men sent to hustle them in faster. Carts rattled in crammed with children, oldsters, flapping chickens and geese, sacks of seed and teetering family heirlooms, threadbare prayer rugs and embroidered pillows. Ram's horns blasted out along the thoroughfares, clearing a path for troops of mailed soldiers jogging from their barracks to reinforce the walls and for supply wagons loaded with the ammunition, cannonballs, crossbow bolts, arrows, and pitch needed for repelling any assault upon the great, keyhole-arched gates.
Standing next to the Sultan the old Sharif Mohammed Aamer cried out through his fluttering white beard, "Izmahu! And to what avail will be all our provisions? Do we forget the siege of Baza? Once his fang is in the fruit the Christian dog will not lift his siege until he sucks our juices. We cannot depend on our citizens to suffer want bravely. They are arrogant when the enemy is at a distance, but when he thunders at our very walls they will weep in misery at their empty larders and turn on us as their tormentors. I say, O Sultan of Greatness, we would be wisest to sue for honorable terms."
A loud murmur of protest went up, but not from all of the counselors.
At the sound of heavy footsteps, Francho turned to see Muza Aben coming from the stair followed by several lieutenants. The mailed and helmeted general approached scowling at the words he had just heard. "Shame to you, honored Sharif, for such craven thoughts, you who are called Sharif because the very blood of the Prophet flows in your veins!" he bellowed, heedless of the old man's dignity. "O Great Sultan Abu Abdullah, your fighting men salute you. We have nothing to fear. Our cavalry is fleet and courageous, and we will harass the enemy troops to their deaths. Our walls are defended by endless relays of archers and arquebusiers deadly sharp of aim, and most significant, our food depots are full to bursting. The Spanish king will have to sit before our gates double a twelve-month to starve us, and consider, the Baza siege lasted only five months. Then where in such a long, weary time would our enemy gain his own supplies or find the money to keep so great an army in the field? The fall rains will soak his flimsy camp and rack his men with fever, with disease; illness will decimate his ranks as relentlessly as will our own fierce sorties." Now the heavy, black gaze transferred to the old counselor again. "I say calm yourself, Sharif Aamer. We are not helpless or intimidated. My masters, if we remain staunch, if we remain as stubborn and brave as our conquering ancestors, the power of great Allah will not desert us."
Even those counselors who had paid attention to the Sharif's wavering gave heed to this bull-necked, snorting warrior and quickly regained their balance, murmuring assent. Francho too regarded him with grudging admiration. His very physical presence could imbue a mouse with courage.
Fearing to be forgotten, Boabdil took up his general's ardor. His jaw shot out in an unconscious imitation of the general. "Well said, gallant soldier. Are we women, sirs, to cringe before the enemy? Is it not on our heads to avenge the deaths of our kin and our friends, the insults to our faith, the sorrow brought on our land by this treacherous aggressor?" The murmur of assent was even louder now. "We all know our duties. Muza Aben commands the cavalry, ordering and leading all sallies. Reduan Venegas and his adjutant Mohammed Sayde will defend our walls and gates. Abdul Kerim Zegri"—and his glance fell on a young captain who had accompanied Gazul—"has charge of the walls of the Alcazaba and the Alhambra. Sharif Aamer, we have placed the allocation of foods and provisions into the capable hands of Ali Hamet Gomeres, who has sworn to find us at least two years of plenty from within our full storehouses."
The elder dropped his head and his gray brows in withdrawal. A page in striped pantaloons who was holding a tasseled silk umbrella on a long pole over the Sultan's head forgot himself and shouted with excitement, "They pass by the village of Maras. This time they are coming up to the very walls!"
"Allah, Allah, let not the feet of the Christians' curse defile our dear valley," the pious High Mufti prayed aloud, raising his fine, soft hands. "Strike them down where they are, O Worker of Miracles," he cried.
With poise Boabdil studied for a moment the glittering Christian forces riding out the shadows of the moment onto the vega. He turned to his chief commander. "I order every gate to the city now closed; no one, neither master nor peasant, shall be admitted or allowed to leave except those I authorize and your cavalry. That is my decree."
Muza Aben bowed heavy shoulders in a salaam and backed away from the royal presence. "It shall be done, as you say, O Sultan," he barked. Wheeling, he thudded back down the stairs with his men.
Francho's gaze grazed Ayaxa, who had said nothing since she had arrived on the tower but who stood there, small and thin, her back as stiff as her iron will. Her eyes, however, were shining to see, at last, her mild-faced, silver-turbaned son acting the worthy successor to his bellicose father. But Francho turned toward the vega again, for he could not keep his own eyes from the glorious spectacle of the military might of all Spain united as it bore down upon them steadily, and now the breeze brought faintly the sound of drums and bells. He had coaxed to his dark, bearded face as angry an expression as the rest of them, but in his heart there was leaping joy to see the masses of bright Christian banners flying in final challenge to the crescent standards of Mohammed that fluttered from the towers of the city.
Still, the order to close the gates to everyone worried him. Did the edict mean that even those with important services, such as the snow gatherers, would not be allowed in and out of the city? Meat could be slaughtered only as needed, fish from the Darro sold as caught, the luxury of iced drinks and sherbets could be dispensed with. It was more than possible his line of communication would be cut.
In his exalted mood Boabdil allowed his attention to be heavily claimed by siege preparations and defense demands from all sides. Thus as soon as Francho was dismissed after the evening meal he rode across the bridge to the Albayzin, and when darkness set in he sent Ali off to inquire the situation from the blind man. In a while the boy returned with word that the blind beggar had reported that the snow gatherers yet came and went on their business in the mountains to the northwest unhindered; whether this would prevail remained to be seen. Bonfires had been lit throughout the city and aroun
d these, large crowds of young people had gathered to shout and gesture their defiance of the besiegers until they dropped with fatigue. Just as the last of these boisterous groups wove past the shadowed mouth of his alley, Francho's own drooping head was brought bolt upright as he sat in his doorway getting some air. Several tall, silent figures stalked toward him and he looked up to the black faces and stern expressions of three palace guards. Five minutes later, his turban rewound, his shoes donned, he remounted his horse to ride back to the palace with them because the Great Sultan was urgently requesting his presence. Stopping at his own apartment to pick up his lute, which the Sultan found more soothing than the guembri, Francho followed the guards once more and was admitted into the Sultan's bedchamber.
"A nightmare, musician, a most terrible vision," Boabdil croaked out to him and shuddered, propped among his silken pillows as hollow-eyed as an old man, unashamedly anxious to see his private chaser of bad dreams. He passed his hand before him in a wide swath as if painting the background for the apparition. "I saw before my eyes, under the light of a red sun, my very own throne, the proud and ancient throne of all the sons of Nasr, and it was covered by dusty spiderwebs and haunted by yellow-eyed bats and owls. And under the moldering cushions of this throne there was a skull—my skull with a lonely river of tears flowing from the gaping eye sockets. And everywhere around there were bones, broken, bloody bones. And the dead white skull wept and wept, somewhere beyond the heavy crimson sun a fearful voice boomed out wild laughter...."
Boabdil turned over and buried his face in the pillows with a muffled groan, the body under his loose robe twitching.
Puzzled that the same man who had stood so regally on the ramparts that afternoon and gave courage to his counselors, a ruler whom he had seen ride to the attack with his troops and lay about him with his jeweled scimitar as bravely as any of his warriors, could yet be left so terrified by a bad dream, Francho unslung the lute, approached the divan, knelt, and sat back on his heels.
"A too rich supper, perchance, Excellence? Always the cause of bad dreams."
Boabdil's head moved back and forth in a despairing negative. Francho was put in mind of a hopeless child. He raised the lute and picked a soft, random melody. "Such dreams are the work of Shaitan to confound your course, Excellence. They are best forgotten."
Boabdil pushed himself up slowly and peered at his Head Musician with ghost-haunted eyes. "No. It is an omen. I shall call the Royal Astrologer to define it."
"That may not be necessary, O Sultan. Why do the evil one's work for him? Your own work calls you in the morning, and the joyful light of Allah's day will cleanse away this demon's poison from your mind."
"I am afraid," Boabdil muttered wanly. "There was a prophesy when I was born...."
Keeping silent, the Sultan's minstrel let his ruler talk about the cruel prophesy, about his treacherous father and his hunted, fearful youth, and about his love for his people; for Francho had early realized what the lonely Sultan most needed was a sympathetic ear in which to pour his torments. But finally he took an opening to veer the subject away from the morbidities that weighed down Boabdil's soul and engaged the Sultan's ears in praise of how solidly fortified and prepared the city was, how excellently organized the army and the resources, how loyal to the throne seemed the people crowded into the stout-walled city. Color came back into the royal face, the lines began to smooth from the brow. In fact, his tension eased, Boabdil belched raggedly three times. He looked at Francho startled, and then laughed outright.
"A bad digestion, did you not say, minstrel?" he quipped, his mental relief as great as the physical one.
The Great Sultan of Granada lay back gratefully and closed his eyes. It took a long while, but he finally found the sleep neither wine nor his physician's potions could give him, soothed into it by the skillful, gentle hands of the musician, Jamal ibn Ghulam, moving upon the lute strings.
Francho judged it near to cock's crow when he finally padded through the silent, dim galleries to his chamber, yawning hugely and wearily, but pleased. He had once more demonstrated the worth that gave him intimate proximity to the Sultan and in the process even gained some fresh and important information on the unwillingness of foreign caliphs to help Granada as Boabdil had slumped shredding the tassels of his pillows. Francho's tired facial muscles fell into a brief but lupine smile.
But as he crossed a flower-planted court where a fountain bubbled softly into the tranquil silence a whiff of jasmine caught him, and there suddenly returned a heavy ache of guilt in his heart. He compressed his lips together hard as if that would erase it. He wondered if anything would ever erase it.
Dolores had fallen asleep on his couch. Even in the yellow light of the lamp her face was pale; there were dark smudges under her eyes where the lashes lay so still. She looked sad and so vulnerable, curled in a lonely huddle. He stood looking down at her, loath to wake her to send her away, ascribing to flinching conscience the mix of exasperation and tenderness that flooded through him and made him want to kneel down beside her and ask her forgiveness. He gazed at the sleeping woman and saw again the girl-child who had shared his youth, dirty-faced, bare-legged, sharing with him the comfits she had snatched from a vendor's tray, giggling in gamine delight at his vulgar verses insulting the pompous Alcalde, oaths like a muleteer issuing from her pink lips when he teased her. He recalled Toledo and with what sorrow she had told him of Tía Esperanza's death— Tía, the only person who had ever cared about her—and how she had turned to him for words of comfort. He considered her startling beauty, her pride in the station she had so capably assumed, her fluting laugh, her courage....
He squeezed his eyes shut. Well, he could no longer flail her for being Dolores. He had humbled her more than he had thought possible. The sin of his presuming to be judge and executioner of her spirit was finally confronting him, lay heavily on him, and he knew he would someday have to pay for it.
Without bothering to put out the small flicker of the lamp, he undressed and lay down beside her, wakeful, one arm behind his head, the quiet breathlessness before dawn allowing the events of the day and night to revolve through his head like a giant wheel. After a while he shifted his position slightly and accidently touched her hand, for she now lay on her back. Dolores sighed and withdrew her hand, then, obeying the prompting of some yearning dream, rolled over in her sleep toward his warmth, so close he felt her even breath on his arm and her leg pressed lightly against him. Filled with contrition and—no lying would help it—desire, he turned on his side and put his other arm about her gently so as not to wake her; and helplessly, humbly, kissed her smooth cheek. He hoped his beard did not tickle her awake. He just wanted to fall asleep like this, holding his impossible, alluring, sorrowful "hermanita" without strain or guilt or blurring of goals, just happy to lie next to her, his strength protecting her vulnerability.
But she did wake up. She woke up smoothly, without warning or start, he knew it by the sudden falter in her breathing. Slowly she drew her head back so that the tiny flame of the oil lamp on the stand was reflected in gray eyes, wide and questioning and forgetting to be blank, and he was pierced through by the fear he read there. Silently he lifted his hand and stroked the tiny tendrils of hair off her brow, off her face. Then his sensitive, strong fingers moved to trace her eyebrows, trailed down her temples to linger along her velvety cheek and then to tenderly outline the wide, full, parted lips. He was unable to hide the latent affection in his touching or ignore the tingling joy that came to him through his fingers, he was unable to tear his eyes away from the sheer disbelief in hers.
Dolores was certain she wasn't dreaming. She wasn't dreaming but yet she couldn't wake up. She felt the heat of his breath as his face came close to hers, but the brief kiss he brushed her lips with had only the weight of a feather. She lay as still and limp as a doll, only her eyes moving as she looked up into his shadowed, strong features. It came into her befogged mind that she must be paralyzed. Although she had stolidly end
ured the brutality she thought she deserved, she wanted now only to flee from this strange reversal, and yet she seemed to have no connection to her muscles.
"Dear God," she heard him groan, and he suddenly buried his face in the soft hollow where her neck joined her shoulder. "Dolores, Dolores," came his anguished whisper, and thoroughly startled, her eyes widening, she thought she felt the damp of a tear against her skin. The muffled, miserable voice mumbled, "How can you know my true remorse if I can hardly tell of it? I've treated you with unspeakable bestiality—and yet, I plead with you to forgive me. Forgive me, forgive me, Dolores, God help me, every word you flung at me was true. I wanted you and so I took you..." His voice broke off into a groan again, the guilt-stricken pain of the man whose cruelty and contempt had cast her into limbo these past weeks. Her lips began to tremble. He went on, "Shaitan take the dainty lies of chivalrous troubadours. The word is not wanted, but want." The baritone became stronger. "Carnally, with every nerve and muscle in my body. And I am helpless to know how to apologize for it, to know how to atone for my brutality, helpless to control my hunger for you. Don't hate me, don't hate me, hermanita," he begged against her neck with desperate fervor, "don't hate me—"
A sob caught in her throat, for she was as miserably helpless as he. She pushed his head up, pushed him back until she could see his eyes, and even in the shadows she beheld the suspicious glistening that matched the tears welling in her own eyes. For a moment her gaze moved over the planes of the handsome, abject face above her, dark curls falling over the forehead, strong, proud nose, the stubborn line of the bearded jaw where a muscle twitched, the mouth set in a grim line, the Adam's apple jutting from the strong neck, bobbing. Then once more her eyes met his. Neither of them breathed nor spoke nor moved, existing only in this moment of wordless communication with the private longings of their hearts held naked in their eyes. And then the spell woven of intimate silence and unuttered meanings deepened into movement.
Hart, Mallory Dorn Page 63