CHAPTER XL
About the White Palace far south of the Great Mountains were pitched a thousand tents, some under the shadows of the wooded heights, others on the banks of a broad river. The palace stood on a hill in the midst of a valley, like a white casket wonderfully carved set upon a pedestal of green marble. In its gardens fountains played amid groves of roses, myrtles, and orange trees. Huge cypresses rose against the gleaming walls, overshadowing beds of purple flowers, white marble stairways, tranquil pools. Towards the deep blue dome of the sky, tower, turret, and minaret mimicked the white peaks of the distant mountains.
About the White Palace on its hill were gathered the armies of Serjabil the Caliph. Pious Moslem that he was, a turbulent man with a heart of fire, he had sent a letter through all his caliphate to such as served Allah and loved the Crescent.
“In the name of the most merciful God, Serjabil to all true believers, joy and greatness be upon you. By the most high God and Mohammed his Prophet, this is to declare that I would send our arms against the infidels who have fallen upon each other beyond the mountains. For behold fighting for the truth is obedience to God. Therefore gather to me, children of the faith, with bow and spear, buckler and scimitar, that we may destroy the infidels, and beat down the Cross into the dust.”
In the great Hall of the Ambassadors sat Serjabil in his ivory chair, a hundred carved pillars dwindling around into the golden gloom of the deepening eve. The ceiling of the hall was of cedar wood, inlaid with silver and lapis lazuli. The walls were covered with tiles of azure and green; the pillars and arches decorated with arabesques and letters of beaten gold. The floor was of white marble, the hangings of scarlet silk.
Serjabil wore a green turban enriched with rubies. His red robe was edged with rare fur over a tunic that was white as the marble floor. In his belt shone a jewelled scimitar, and before him on a desk of cedar wood was laid the Koran—the book of the Prophet.
Serjabil’s black eyes gleamed and sparkled in his dusky face. It was the face of a man who was both a soldier and a sage, one who possessed the heart of a Kaled and the wisdom of an Ali knit together. About him were gathered the great ones of his land, emirs with snow-white beards, merchant princes, soldiers, scribes. They were gathered there in Serjabil’s palace to hear his commands concerning the war.
Before Serjabil’s chair stood Hassan the poet, a thin-featured man, with a short black beard. The Caliph had called him forth from the throng to utter panegyrics in praise of war.
“Oh Hassan,” were the Caliph’s words, “to what would you liken the servant of God who destroyeth the heathen and obeyeth the Prophet?”
The poet salaamed, and touched with his lips a little charm that he wore at his neck on a silver chain.
“Oh Lion of God,” quoth he, stretching out his hands, “who shall dare to praise the great? Behold, have I not seen the sun in his strength roll back the mists out of the valleys and launch his chariots over the hills? The hearts of the holy hunger for battle, for the sound of the sword and the cry of the trumpet. To the sun would I liken the Lion of God, who giveth life to the children of men, even life in death, and in death paradise.”
Serjabil took a brooch from his red robe, a brooch set with precious stones, and cast it on the floor at Hassan’s feet.
“Oh son of the golden mouth,” he said, “God give ye joy of the true belief.”
Hassan bowed low and took the brooch.
“Methinks,” he cried, with his face afire, “that I see the black-eyed girls of heaven gazing upon us from their scented gardens.”
At a sign from Serjabil two black slaves brought a man in shackles from a neighbouring alcove. It was Thibaut the Apostate, a renegade priest, who had fled from Agravale over the mountains. He had received many wrongs at Jocelyn’s hands, and in his shame he had abjured the Cross, and turned Mohammedan to serve his ends.
Standing before Serjabil’s chair, with the huge Æthiopians towering above him, Thibaut told of the state of the Christian provinces, and of the turbulence and vanity that reigned therein. He told how Samson had arisen in the Seven Streams, and had spread his heresy among the people till the Pope had decreed a crusade against him and the barons of the south had marched to war. Thibaut described the lands north of the mountains as empty and ruinous, rotten with decay. The Cross had been carried against the Cross, so that the Christians had sapped each other’s strength. The Southern Marches, ay, and the Seven Streams, waited for the conqueror who should come with the sword.
When Thibaut had spoken, Serjabil arose and laid his hand on the open Koran.
“In the name of God,” he said, “and of Mohammed His Prophet, shall we not march against these fools? Behold, we are strong, we are not divided. While these Christians quarrel, let us cross the mountains.”
Many dark eyes kindled at the words; hands were stretched towards the Sacred Book, swords drawn and held towards the cedarn roof. The dusky faces shone with zeal, and white teeth gleamed behind coal-black beards. Serjabil drew his scimitar from its sheath, kissed the naked blade whereon were carved texts from the Koran and the names of his ancestors.
“La illah il Allah,” cried they all with the dim, strange ardour of the East, “let us march, oh Lion, against the Cross.”
Then through the shadowy galleries, under the dreamy arches, came the cry of a muezzin from the minaret in the great court—
“To prayer, to prayer.”
For it was the hour before sunset, when the hills were red above the cypress thickets and the golden meads. Silence had fallen in the hall where black slaves knelt with bowls full of water under the blue and silver roof. The solemn worshippers cleansed themselves, washing face, hands, and neck before falling to prayer. Every turbaned head was bowed towards the east, while the prayers went up through the many arches into the gold of the evening sky.
When Serjabil rose from off his knees, he closed the Koran upon its stand of cedar wood, and passed out to the stone-paved terrace that looked over the valley towards the woods. Beneath lay the palace garden, its dark thickets steeped in the odour of a myriad flowers. Soldiers and scribes followed the Caliph, their many-coloured turbans like a rich parterre against the whiteness of the palace walls.
Beneath in the valley stood the tents of Serjabil’s camp. The Saracens had risen from the grass where they had knelt in prayer, their faces towards the east. Seeing the Caliph upon the walls, they raised a loud shout, stretched up their hands to him.
“La illah il Allah,” came the cry, “oh Lion of Heaven, the Prophet preserve thee.”
Many ran to where their horses were tethered, loosed them, mounted, and took spear and shield. They galloped and circled over the meadows, tossing their lances high in the air, making mimic onslaughts, troop against troop. Their wild cries rang over rock and river as the sun went down into the west.
Serjabil stood close by the parapet with Thibaut the Apostate by his side.
“Behold,” he cried to those around him, “how the crescent moon climbs into the sky. She shall shine full on us that night when we cross the mountains.”