The echoes of the Sulhama having expired in the air, the faithful rose from their posture of adoration, and the supreme Kadi of the land read this decree: “Hear me, ye worshippers of the true God! The Christian there had planned the downfall of our nation and the uprooting of Islam; but Allah willed it otherwise, decreeing that we deal with him as he meant to deal with us. Our late Seedna—may Allah grant him the joys of paradise—died in his coat of mail, combating that infidel dog, who came as a foe and acted as a traitor, dishonoring his flag. Therefore did our Emir-al-Mumemin decree that he perish ignominiously, like the other slaves who would not recite the fatha. May Allah wither the right hand of our Seedna’s enemies.—There is no God but God, and Mohammed is his Prophet!”—Slowly bricks and mortar closed up the open side of the upright tomb. One hour later there was no cell to be seen, but a plain wall hiding a monarch quickly choking to death, while the barbarians returned jubilant to the city.
Under the rule of Muley Zidan, a firman, bearing the Grand Vizier’s signature, was placarded in every mosque of his domain, promising him who should be instrumental in restoring the lost crown to the ruling dynasty not alone high honors, but the option of leading home as wife any maiden of the empire, from the daughter of the first Sultana down to any damsel within the confines of Mauritania, and the assurance was given that there would be no inquiry as to how the lucky finder had come into possession of the imperial diadem.
As time lent distance to the disastrous crusade and its tragic sequels, a spontaneous crop of tales and legends transferred the former memorable event into the realm of romance. Down to this day the rustic folk of Lusitania look forward to the return of Dom Sebastian, whom they believe to dwell among the Moors in the somnolent state of Barbarossa, while among the tribes of Western Barbary it is popularly current that, owing to unknown causes, the great battle is periodically fought over, always at new moon, the phantom armies engaging each other on the banks of the Elmahassen, and the combat winding up with the historic rout of the crusaders.
Indeed the foolhardy invasion would read like the myth of the Argonauts, had the outcome turned out less crushing to the adventurers. For a youthful king, in the twenties, and of limited resources, to embark on a career of conquest remote from his base of supply, the coveted prize being a warlike empire much larger than the kingdoms of Spain and Portugal combined, an empire which Christendom learned to fear, is so daring an adventure that, but for its unquestioned reality, it could pass as a bit of chivalrous fiction. And the circumstances under which the last encounter took place, the death of the Sultan, the loss of the crown, and the terrible fate of the prisoners, tend much to invest the event with a halo of the mystic and the ghostly.
However, the legendary evolution of that desperate struggle near Al-Kesar Kebir may be traced back to the adventures of a student from Timbuctu, who arrived at Fez at the beginning of the sixteenth century. That was the time when the Fazzi had good cause to boast of cherishing one of the greatest centres of learning in the world. From the valley of the Nile, from the banks of the Congo and the Niger, from populous Europe, darkest Africa, and farthest Asia, the youth of the opulent without distinction of creed and race flocked to the halls of the Kairouin to cull the honey dropping from the lips of inspiration, especially the dimly revealed arcana that teach how to read the signs of the stars.
The Kairouin was then, and is in diminished lustre now, four institutions in one,—the highest school, the largest mosque, the greatest library, and the most hospitable caravansary in the vast regions traversed by the Atlas Mountains. Within the precincts of the Kairouin hundreds of poor students found then not only free shelter and tuition but also food and garments, the cost being defrayed from the ample bequest of the philanthropic Fatma, the original benefactress of that curious university. It embraced a miniature world of the rich and the poor, the learned and the ignorant, the faithful and the infidel, the good and the bad; was the home of every Moslem who had none other; and, among its many good things, was distinguished for an atmosphere of tolerance, peace and cordiality. Even to-day the president of the Kairouin, the Mokaddun, whose office is hereditary, treats all as equals, the prince and the beggar having the same right, and that is to take life easy,—very easy. Instances of nervousness from overwork have never been heard of in the Kairouin. Once matriculated, the student is not expected to pass examinations, and is a privileged character, his presence in the city being a source of revenue to its inhabitants. For it should be remembered that among those who come to the Kairouin in quest of wisdom are the sons of the wealthiest sheykhs, nobles, and merchants from all the habitable lands which skirt the sands of the Sahara, young lords wrapped in soft silks, bestriding Arabian steeds magnificently caparisoned, followed by retinues of slaves to cater to their physical wants, and harems to beguile their ennui. Nor is, in the chase of romantic diversion, the beautiful Fazzi neglected; the people being inclined to connive at the trivial transgressions of the future pillars of Moslem scholarship. Thrifty parents know how and when to be absent when the young lords from Insala, Nubia, Tunis, Tripoli, Egypt, Taradunt, or Timbuctu are sure to mark their transit through apartments of supposed inviolable privacy by a trail of gold-sand. Such are the traditions of the Kairouin, realized down to this day.
But the student of Timbuctu with whom this tale is concerned was in every way an exception. He disdained luxury, spurned the delights of the harem, consorted with nobody, had but one aged slave to wait on him, dwelt in a tent on a rock in the outskirts of the city, and spent his days among the piles of old books and manuscripts treasured on the shelves of the Kairouin’s subterranean library. In the bazaars he was known for years as the student who paid for his purchases in silver or in gold, without ever waiting for the change. He was not handsome. His most remarkable feature was a face strikingly reminding one of the owl’s, with orange eyeballs which glowed like living topaz stones. He wore an expression which, once caught, haunted one like an apparition. His white-haired attendant was dumb and moved like an automaton of bronze, leaving one in doubt as to whether he was really a creature of flesh and blood. All that was known about that strange student was that he had come with the great caravan from Timbuctu, that his name was Omeyya, and that he devoted his whole time to researches in works of the occult sciences, such, for instance, as alchemy and astrology, supplementing his inquiries with practical experiments, assisted by his automatic attendant. His was a personality whom the Fazzi liked much less than they feared. Omeyya was left severely alone, but this was just the condition which seemed to suit him. His unique appearance and singular individuality had their origin in his exceptionally romantic birth, and in a career even stranger than his beginning. He grew up as the adopted child of the renowned sibyl Kadijah, whose abode was a cavern near Timbuctu, and who was more shunned than sought by the people of her quarter. To the simple folk Kadijah was known as the “owl-witch,”—rarely met, and then usually during the dusky hour before and after sunset, still more rarely at night; ever in a hurry, with her hair-covered arms flapping like the wings of a scared ostrich. She was in very truth like a hairy owl; weazen-faced, the extremities of her body resembling claws while her face bore every resemblance to that of the owl, orange eyeballs and a nose so pointed, hooked, and beak-like that it partly covered the thin curl of her upper lip. Only in extreme cases of distress did the people of Timbuctu resort to her for help, and her manner of meeting emergencies inspired them with awe. Her most potent specific was the likeness of a long-necked, heron-like bird, crudely drawn with charcoal on a bit of leather, and hung on the breast of the afflicted patient. The cure was assured.
In Kadijah’s sombre abode Omeyya came to his consciousness of life, nursed with motherly solicitude, and was later initiated into the secrets of her dark arts. One day, the boy having risen to mature youth, the owl-witch startled him by offering to inform him as to the mystery of his life.
“Thou knowest not who thou art, my son, and my approaching end requires me to let nothing stand between thee and the truth concerning thy legitimate parents. In this place Naïma, the daughter of Moadh, then recognized the strongest arm of Timbuctu, gave thee birth. Thy father’s name was Abu Sofian, the heir of Abu Thaleb, whom Moadh had slain in a family feud. When of age, and strong enough to avenge his father’s death, Sofian burned to run a steel through Moadh’s heart, vengeance being his only thought and prayer. From the flat roof of his mother’s home Sofian had a clear view of his foe’s terraced habitation, and thither he daily sent his imprecations, determined to break into it at the first opportunity, and make an end of the fierce homicide. The outbreak of a fire in the immediate neighborhood of Moadh’s house gave the daring youth his chance. Armed with a deadly weapon, he succeeded in slipping unnoticed into the Saalemlik (reception room) of the hated man. Missing his object here, the son of Abu Thaleb made a dash for the Haremlik, resolved to strike down the head of the house in the inviolable seclusion of his wives. His rush was checked by the appearance of a tiny, jewelled, alabaster hand, that swept a silken curtain aside,—and there stood revealed above the frame of a screen a Houri of charms so enchanting that the lad was not sure that he was awake. ‘Comest thou to save me from the flames? They are out to watch the fire, and my sire commanded me to await his return; he is a fearful man to be disobeyed,’ spoke the girl in excitement; but her voice melted Sofian’s heart, and made his eyes to swim.
“‘Fairy of the sun, disguise thy beauty in a man’s jellab and turban that I may save thee, even if I die in the attempt,’ replied Sofian with great presence of mind; and the girlish figure disappeared, to return as that of a stately youth.