Three miles to the north, sheltered under the green heights of the Sierra Morena, rose the plaisance of Medina-a-Zehra, created by him, a congerie of kiosks and pavilions entered by gates of blue and yellow porcelain, overtopping woods of exotic shrubs, choice plants, and rare fruit-trees—here the Safary peach (nectarine) was first ripened in Europe—divided by the fountains, canals, and fish-ponds so dear to the Arab fancy; twelve statues in pure gold set with precious stones spouting perfumed water within a patio girt in by crystal pillars.
Hither came emirs, ambassadors, merchants, and pilgrims, all agreed that nothing could be compared to these matchless gardens. And besides Ez-Zahra there were other monuments, which have all disappeared under the mantle of green turf that lines the banks of the Guadalquivir. Not a stone left of the pavilion of Flowers, of Lovers, and of Content, the palace of the Diadem, evidently destined for the royal jewels, and another called after the city of Damascus.
About were many noble streets and plazas with baths and mosques, for next to the mosque stood the bath in credit among the Moslem, and as such despised by the Christians to that point, that after Ferdinand and Isabella drove the Moors out of Spain, their grandson, Philip II., ordered the destruction of all public baths as relics of Mohammedanism.
CHAPTER XII
Abdurraman, Sultan of Cordoba
BDURRAMAN, first Sultan of Cordoba, was a kindly hearted man, with none of the traditional cruelty of the Arab, eloquent in speech, and of a quick perception—quite the Caliph of Eastern tales. Never in repose, never entrusting the care of his kingdom to viziers, intrepid in battle, terrible in anger and intolerant of opposition; yet ready to follow the biers of his subjects, pray over the dead, and even to mount the pulpit of the mosque on Fridays and address the people.
His majestic presence and dark, commanding face, lit up by a pair of penetrating eyes, shadowed by thick black eyebrows, inspired fear rather than love in those around him, and though it was said of him “he never forgot a friend,” it was added, “nor ever forgave an enemy.”
As he passed at evening alone into the garden of Ez-Zahra, the porphyry, jasper, and marble of the pavement absorbed by the intense blue of the sky, all his attendants fell back. His brow was knit with thought, for the fame of the victories of Charles Martel troubled him sorely. He knew that in knowledge and science the Frankish king was as a peasant compared to him, yet his name was in all men’s mouths as the conqueror of the Moors.
Not only did Charles Martel, after the victory of Tours, excel him in renown, but the remnant of the Goths, driven out of the cities of Spain, had taken refuge in the mountains bordering the Bay of Biscay, among the caves and untrodden defiles of the Asturias, and, small and insignificant as they were, still defied him.
Just and generous in character, the Sultan would have gladly drawn to him this patriotic band by an equitable rule, if they would have submitted; but the obstinate endurance of the Spaniard was never more displayed than in the fierce determination of these fugitives never to yield.