The explosion in my workshop had, I ascertained, been attributed to accident, therefore, as soon as I returned, I found another corner, and, removing those of my polishing stones and cloths that had escaped injury, I resumed my work, resolved to hope on and wait. So swiftly and silently had the coup d’état been carried out, that only the conspirators themselves knew of it, those of the dead monarch’s bodyguard who had witnessed the brutal assassination being all safely in prison pending the Grand Vizier’s decision as to their fate. True, the sudden disappearance of the Sultan caused some anxiety in the harem and among the Fadáwa-n-serki, or royal courtiers, but this was at once allayed by a report that was spread that His Majesty had unexpectedly set out upon a journey.
It was only at night, when Khadidja and Zobeide, the Sultan’s two favourites, were, without warning, decapitated by the eunuchs in the centre of one of the Courts of Love, that the doves of the gilded cage vaguely guessed the truth. Trembling, they huddled together upon their mats, none knowing who might fall the next victim of the wrath of their absent unknown lord.
That night, and through many nights following, dark terrible dramas were enacted in that dazzling female hive. The plots, jealousies, and intrigues of the past were bearing fruit, and when darkness fell, eunuchs would bring me their scimitars wet with blood to be cleaned and burnished, while others carried out the bodies of the fair ones in silent gloomy procession. More than once I saw upon a passing bier a form that moved and struggled desperately, though no cry came from beneath the black pall. They were those unfortunate ones doomed to torture, who at daybreak would be conveyed by the guards far into the desert, secured, and there left to die of heat and thirst, affording a feast for the flies and the great grey vultures.
The history of the Sultans of Agadez is a bloody story—one long chapter of murder, fierce combats, and poisonings, that, had the secrets ever leaked out, would form a startling volume. How many dark plots had been hatched within those painted walls! What passionate love, what unbridled hate! A despot is always all-powerful; but the Sultan Hámed was a despot of despots. A favourite one day; the next a carcase eaten by dogs at the city gate. A wife one day, robed in brocade and dazzling with diamonds; the next a slave washing the feet of her who only a day ago waited upon her, and was cuffed and beaten at her command. Truly indeed the Grand Vizier Mukhtar and his accomplice, the Chief of the Eunuchs, were now revenging themselves upon those who had sought to compass their downfall, and the scenes of fiendish cruelty and bloodshed witnessed nightly within those gorgeous Courts of the Sultanas must have been awful. Until the new monarch could be publicly proclaimed, they ruled the Fáda, and were removing with horrible brutality those of its inmates whose existence might in the future prove detrimental to their interests.
At last, on the morn of the Nahr-el-Djemäa following Hámed’s assassination, his son ’Abd-el-Kerim was publicly proclaimed Sultan of the Ahír. Through the city of Agadez the news spread rapidly, announcements were made in the camel market and in the market of slaves, the cadis gave forth the astounding intelligence from their divans, invoking at the same time the blessing of Allah, while from the great gates of the Fáda horsemen spurred away fleet as the storm-breeze, through the oasis and across the lonely Desert for many days, bearing the news to the furthermost limits of His Majesty’s domains.
So carefully had the secret of the tragedy been preserved, that until that day the people knew not that their ruler had died, and with the intelligence there came the news that his son was already reigning in his stead. None mourned, but in the palace and throughout the land there was general feasting and rejoicing. Even the slaves were allowed a day of idleness, and I, among them, lolled upon the bench in my den, and enjoyed a calm siesta, notwithstanding the life and movement in the wide sunlit court outside. Glad of the brief relaxation from wearying toil, I dozed through the hot, brilliant afternoon, and only awakened to a consciousness of things about me by words being whispered into my ear.
“Awake, O Roumi,” exclaimed a negro, hunchbacked and of dwarfed stature, whom I beheld standing before me. “Take care lest thou attractest the attention of thine enemies.”
I started up, alarmed that the deformed stranger should have discovered my creed. A Christian would, I knew, quickly meet his death at the hands of that fierce fanatical people.
“How—how darest thou declare that I am no believer in the Prophet?” I demanded, with feigned anger.
“Hush! Fear not. Thou art the one who hast journeyed from afar over the Great Desert, and art detained as slave of the Sultan. For thee I bear a secret message.”