Little Ahmed had almost managed to sneak away with a kerchief full of "liberated" oranges when the Great Black snarled his name.  Oh, of course, it was in the process of naming off a half dozen of the boys of the Caravansarai, so perhaps he was unjustified for feeling persecuted, but, that is the nature of the world.  When you are seven and you had already done the morning chores, the call was "just unfair".  "Bring in the hay, sweep the guest quarters, 20 pails of water in the trough, heat some water for the bath," thus sounded the sing-song voice of the overseer as he called the familiar list of chores.   A caravan? Now?  But it was just barely mid day!  Usually a caravan came in long after dark, faint from the last great push to get to the city of Algiers. Those were common enough, the spooky shadows from the torches flickering on the clay walls of the central courtyard and the boys being kicked from their cozy nests in the hay by the Great Black.  But mid-day! THIS was sufficiently interesting to actually respond to the call instead of ducking into one of the dozen hidey holes known to all boys everywhere.

It was a caravan! With camels and mules and donkeys; but unlike the usual scruffy freight animals, these were white and their hair had been trimmed and they had a haughty attitude that was even haughtier than usual for a camel.  And there were horses, patiently plodding along in nose to tail strings. Now that WAS unusual.  Hmmm.  And as little Ahmed dipped water from the well pail into a seemingly endless series of heavy wooden buckets held out by surly older boys, he had to make room for  the "Great Gentleman" who had obviously timed his arrival for the mid day prayers, for he was in the process of swiftly washing his hands, his mouth, his neck and his head, all the while sliding out of his traveling clothes and into street clothes, and without apparent thought and with no lapse of modesty. Or time...which like important people the world over, he seemed to have very little of!

       A tremendous bustling and bellowing of camels, braying of donkeys, yelling of boys, the noise filling the large courtyard, and the Big Ahmed, the Caravanserai owner took everything into hand in that capable fashion of innkeepers everywhere.  In a surprisingly short time, the camels were gratefully kneeling beside the newly unlocked rooms and were being unloaded, and the thoroughbreds shouldered their way to the  huge L shaped stone water trough to finish off what the donkeys and horses had left behind.  Then it was the camels turn. If a camel could be said to have a blissful expression, well, they had something similar, at least they looked less sour as they dipped their heads down and ignored the rough men who kept such noble beasts captive.  The troupe had gathered all their equipage from the piles, and like laden ants were queuing into the guest quarters....long barracks with low ceilings, with poles jutting out of the walls, looking for all the world like horizontal flagpoles spaced just far enough apart that a large man could just touch them with his outstretched fingers.  The floor was good clean sand, perfect for a good night's sleep, and the ceiling was just above head level.  The traveling robes were slung onto the "flagpoles" to form cells for the inhabitants, and Ahmed, like the other boys, brought in clean water to wash the traveler's feet, and welcome them to Tripoli, and discovered they had come from Fez, leaving only a day and a half before, but a month before that, the fabled Cairo! 
 
     The Great Gentleman has already rolled his prayer carpet, and with  several servants, had vanished on some errand, but the rest of the entourage was settling in, perhaps hoping for a day's shopping, or perhaps simple rest.  One of the entourage was blind, and though blind seemed to be able to fold his head cloth neatly and place it away, and he thanked little Ahmed for his charity.  "I shall tell stories " he said in deep rich tones "of the ancient days this fine evening.  Attend me then, and I shall reward thee with more than stories". Ahmed allowed that it would be his honour, but of course, the honour would have to be allowed by his master, Big Ahmed.  And besides (he could not resist saying, for he WAS only seven and felt loyalty to his own) Big Ahmed already employed a wonderous story teller for the entertainment of travelers.  "His name?" asked the melodious voice from the other side of the robe-become curtain who was bustling about, obviously packing and unpacking things such as all travelers do when they arrive.  "Why sir, his name is Abdallah Es Zaghal. The noises stopped, and the story teller thrust his face out of his cell, his milky eyes fixed on Ahmed's face for all the world just as if he could see the little lad.  "Abdallah the Valiant?  Really! Well well well.  A bold name indeed!  Perhaps tonight I shall allow this Abdallah Es Zaghal to entertain ME!"  And he said it in tones which did not sound fortunate for the beggar that Big Ahmed had hired only a few months before.  "Yes, lad, you shall definitely attend me this evening.  Ahmed smiled and brought his bucket over to the next cell to wash a pair of filthy feet which were stuck out into the common area just for him.

      And this was how Sulimann El Alamein first met Abdallah Es Zaghal, in a noisy caravanserai in the outskirts of Tripoli.


The evening prayers had been called, and all had answered for of course, Tripoli is a devout city. And afterwards,  Little Ahmed had led the surprisingly  agile old story teller all over, to the barber where he had spices rubbed into his hair, and had allowed the gentle Indus-born barber to trim the stiff straight beard. And he had dragged a huge bundle of clothing to the fullers to be laundered, and was not looking forward to carrying it back washed, and lay out on the roofs to bleach to blinding whiteness in the sun tomorrow.  But sufficient to the day was this one!  Little Ahmed became the El Alamein's eyes and guide as they visited the refectory, the stables, the miniature market which always springs up outside a caravanserai whenever a caravan is in, and he counted himself fortunate enough to not have to attend his master in the soil closet.  The day ended, as all days must, and after the final communal meal, and the last chick pea had been swept into waiting mouths, the staff had been fed, and the courtiers settled back to enjoy tiny cups of scalding hot coffee and even tinier pipes of hashish which they would employ very sparingly though the evening.  In the distance was the harbour, and sharp in the setting sun you could just make out the outlines of ships, sheltering under the guns of Tripoli Castle, and way out behind flowed the great sand bar which started to the west, spread out almost at the horizon, and was lost in the waves to the east.  The Great Black, for once was dozing by the stables, keeping half an eye on the animals, the other half on the boys, and he kept one closed. Maybe.  It seemed to open from time to time, just to make his small charges think.  The rationed bitumen had been placed within the first torch to be lit once the evening had progressed to where they would need some light. The torches were nice in the early evening since they illuminated a large area, but they died down quickly, and the longer lasting oil lamps were hung outside every doorway.

      Abdallah Es Zaghal had made an effort this evening, his rags looked like they had been rinsed out, if not repaired, his skinney hand shook with a slight palsy that was new this spring. Big Ahmed made a gracious host, ordering  fingerbowls and rosewater confections be brought to the guests. Already, some desultory conversation of the sort common to men who had been together for too long was starting, and the "Great Gentleman" had returned.  He had dined, but it seemed that his errand today was not fruitful, for he was petulant and short with the courtiers.  He attempted to play a bit on the guitar as all wealthy and influential men are fabled to do, but his mind was not on the task, so he called for a story.  
     Suilimann el Alamein spoke up then and said "I understand we have a famous personage here with us tonight.  No other than the king of Andalusia, Abdallah Es Zaghal himself!"  "Oh learned gentlemen," came the shakey voice of Abdallah, "know that by God's wisdom and grace, I am a decendant of the great Abdallah himself, and am entitled to his name."
      "Oh really?" answered the Great Gentleman quietly.  "Such a wonderful and famous name must have a wonderful and famous story behind it.   As for your fitness to wear such a name...well, I confess to being a bit surprised.  You don't LOOK like a king, of Andalusia or for that matter not even of that yonder dunghill!"
        "My story is simple, oh great scholar, as am I, but my revered ancestor's story is worthy to tell".  And with these tradional words of the story teller, Abdallah Es Zaghal, the "valiant" told the story of the original Abdallah who had lived nearly three centuries before.

             The Story of Abdallah Es Zaghal

     The man with the clever voice sat cross legged, just outside the circle of diners, the stars wheeling above and the horses stamped their feet in the darkness.  The torches had all died down now, and the faint light of the oil lamps steadied the shadows.  It was a magical place, and the story teller did nothing to dispell the mood or to light the scene further, for by such simple stage setting are the best stories told!  "Know Oh Scholar of the exploits of my great ancestor.  Rightful king of Andalusia, he was born in the "land of the horses", just as Trajan and Hadiran had been,  and was educated in Cairo and Bagdad, and his liniage was of the great Nasarid kings. His Great Grandfather had conquored the land by the strength of God and his bloody sword hand, his grandfather had built great castles, and fortified the whole territory, yea, even expanding it somewhat against the Franks.  His father had built a great and important univerity, and hired learned Jews, Clever Christians, and talented Musselmen to teach their combined wisdom, and as God is Great, all knew that the empire benefited from his forethought.  The kindom created by this line of strong rulers rivaled Bagdad itself and its strenght was such that it did not pay tribute to the Calif there.

       Abdallah's father also diverted delicate streams to flow into the castles, and he expanded those castles to form palaces for he believed that that peace was always preferable to war, and his young son learnt comfort and decadence at his knee. Trade goods flowed into the kingdom from all over the empire, to be traded inland for cork and wool, and iron, for where else would the barbaric Christians get their cinnamon and spices?"  A thoughtful nod from the attentive audience,who passed the tiny pipe around and grumbles of "go on, and yes of course" flowed by the old man, and he knew by the mutterings that he had hooked his listeners properly.
       "And then, he discovered "love".  Oh, certainly he had no lack of companionship, the ladies of the bath, the gentlemen of the hawk, the musicians of the chamber, but he fell deeply and profoundly in love with Selma, the 17th daughter of the king of Fez. A remarkable thing, since he had only seen her at a distance when he was on the wharf at Mallilla when he was returning to Andalusia from Cairo, peering down at the busy sailors on the ships from a perch high up on the fortress walls.  Her father Benemerin was furious, accusing her of letting her veil slip because she had seen a well groomed boy on the docks, but even under torture, her guards declared that she had remained demure, and was at all times circumspect, but regardless, her father forbade her to visit the docks and she could no longer watch the passengers disembarking from her accustomed post in the shadow of the the watchtower.

        The delightful Selma was not content to just lie about the palace, declaiming uselessly over a love such as was common in the old poetry, but rather, she had her scribes write letters perfumed with jasmine and roses which were duly delivered to Andalusia.  Her father knew about these letters of course, but unknown to Selma, he would open them, changing them slightly from time to time, adding a bit here and there, carefully crafting a love where before there was only a youthful crush.
         And Abdallah, began to spend even less time around the famous horses and he totally ceased touring the outlying watch towers and defenses, but instead flung himself from couch to couch, declaring to all that his heart was now truly broken, and telling all and sundry that they must put pressure on his father to sue for marriage to Selma, daughter of Benemerin the King of Fez.  His father had his own thoughts however, of his several sons, the oldest had died by being trampled by a horse he had failed to control (the horses beautiful dappled head, stuffed, still decorated the grand stairway, an ignominious though appropriate reward for killing a prince of the blood the listeners agreed), the second oldest had died when his ship piled up onto a reef outside of Corsica, and Abdallah was the heir, and would NOT be married to just anybody!  Although, come to think of it, to be allied with the House of Fez by marriage is no shabby thing either.
 
       The kindom of Andalusia is a difficult kingdom to defend.  There were so many passes through the mountains, and so many acquisitive fingers reaching out, that it was expensive to pay for the men and equipment, the counters, the customs men, soldiers, policemen, and bribes to neighbouring kingdoms to allow free trade to enrich the land.  Every year, diplomats from France, Germany, Portugal, even England would arrive to eat Abdallah's fathers food, dally with his father's slaves, shop the startling loud and interesting markets,and cut deals with his father's bankers.  It was all very complicated, and much more than a fifteen year old boy could possibly take any interest in.  And as Abdallah's father grew older and grayer every year, his son watched, and pondered whether he would ever be able to work all day every day just to stay even to the previous day's achievement!  Not surprisingly, he felt that his life as a prince was a good one, and the life of a king would be nasty and difficult. Not to mention dangerous! 

        The youthful prince disclosed these thoughts to his beloved Selma by letter to Fez, which was opened and read to her father, then carefully sealed back up and delivered to Selma herself. When Selma received that letter, she could scarcely contain herself, but went immediately to her father to demand...no thats not right, not even princesses demand things from kings, it was a "demure maidenly request" to allow her to accept the proposal from the powerful king of Andalusia, the son of whom was clearly smitten with her. Rather glossed over was the uncomfortable fact that in actual fact, Abdallah's father had actually not requested the alliance.

     Benemerin was meditating in the garden of the almonds trees when his daughter made this most unorthodox but not un-exampled request, and secretly was pleased that the seeds he had sewn were beginning to take root.  But as his visier cautioned, there was a lot that could go wrong before the roots grew into a tree and it would bear fruit! Two summers would pass and the love between the prince and the princess grew stronger and stronger, for as everyone knows, love only grows with absence.  Selma continued her wheedling, while Abdallah developed a positive distaste for diplomats, and his patience was immediatly exhausted by normal court duties. Rather than taking some of the load from his ailing father, he avoided such work entirely, prefering instead to master a variety of musical instruments, learn several languages, and obsess about his denied love across the sea.  He was totally unprepared when his father suddenly stood up from his throne of iron and silver, and embarked on his great voyage to be with God.  The great powerful heart was suddenly stilled, and Abdallah was just as suddenly, the undisputed king of Adalusia.

      A king has many powers, many advisors, many duties, and Abdallah was woefuly un-prepared to deal with any of them.  He saw instantly that his life of comfort and ease was now at an end, and  the hard dangerous life of the Calif was now his road as well.  Almost immediatly, the world's ambassadors came crowding in, for Andalusia was a very important kingdom, and many treaties were suddenly in jeopardy.  Abdallah was now awakened well before dawn, and often did not leave his last meetings until it was time for the evening bath.  This was NOT the life he had ever wanted...he wanted to be an idle prince.  Preferably well down on the list of succession.  Perhaps, it came to him like a chicadee alighting on a branch, 17th down on the list of succession. Like the daughter of Benemerin perhaps?

      And so was hatched the great plan to somehow divest himself of this millstone of a kingdom.  But how?  Oh surely kingdoms had changed hands countless times, usually by conquest of course, but sometimes because it was the Grand Caliph's plan to move the kings under his command around like men on a chess board.  But Andalusia was autonomous, and was not enfeofed to any foreign king or Calif, and if his kindom was simply conquored, he would surely be killed.  But perhaps it could be sold?  Nobody had ever sold a kingdom before had they?"  (the audience, all shook their heads, no they had never heard of such a thing either). 

      So, Abdallah threw himself into the world of kings, princes, high and low level politics, and in due course, offered his kingdom on the open market to anyone who could pay the highest price.  The Christian King Fernando was interested in expanding his territory of course, but his insane queen Isabella had founded the bloody Spanish Inquisition, and you know that evey person in Andalusia would end up hanging by month's end.  That would prove to be unsatisfactory. Ahh, but his cousin Boabdil owned a tiny ajoining kindom whose only real source of wealth was alluvial gold sands which were pretty much worked out.  Countless offers flowed into the great palace in Granada, and Boabdil sought help from Bagdad and Fez to raise sufficient funds to purchase a whole kingdom! 

       He succeeded beyond his wildest expectations.  With money from Bagdad and Fez backing him up, he paid the silly prince five million gold maravedi, and moved in the instant the stars and the moon were propitious.  The young prince was now free to pursue a life of idleness as the husband of the woman 17th in line to the throne....which is to say, no chance at all of ever becoming a king! So he took ship that very day to Fez, bringing only those few necessities a prince of the blood must have.  He packed lightly, only bringing a three extra ships full of personal goods with him as he sailed into Fez's paid harbour at  Mallilla and of course, several passenger ships full of Andelusians who did not like the tribe of Boabdil. Using some of their master's money, they settled in Mallilla, (their descendants are there still!) and bought camels and horses for the long ride overland to Fez.  The gold from the sale of his kingdom took 5 camels to carry!  It was a glorious sight! Praise to God.

      (here ensued a pause while the audience re-lit their pipes, and passed them one by one to the story teller, not neglecting a few coins tossed onto the carefully spread kerchief in front of him. The Great Black lit one of the torches, and between the torches and the brazier in the centre of the circle, the shadows caper like live things in the background.  Little Ahmed curled his warm body around the cold feet of the courtier who had hired him for the evening, and listened with all his might to the story of the Great Men.)

      "So, the king went to Fez to become a prince" prompted the Great Man when they were all settled again. "Yes, yes he did.  The journey was not so very long, but it was grand, and they took their time....Abdallah enjoying his new found life of luxury in a litter slung between two patient camels, quiet evenings of chess and poetry read by professional poets, even a bit of the prohibited Andelusian wine was brought out late at night when the rest of the caravan was quiet and asleep.  
       Abdallah entered the town of Taza, the agreed upon meeting place, and there he brought suit for the hand of the daughter of the Caliph of Morrocco and King of Fez, and they traveled together in apparent friendship all the way to Fez.  There Benemerin installed Abdallah in state bedrooms, and gathered all his courtiers to the palace.  Then the hand of Satan played the final moves in the great chess game which began on the docks of Tangier those many years ago! 

       Guards roughly dragged the petty kinglet out of his slumber and into a tiny room beside the great marble throne room of Fez.  He was asked, "whoust thou look upon the woman of thy desires", and laughter greeted his resounding "Yes".  The king of Fez smiled an evil smile, and declared "That thou shall never do", and ordered Abdallah's eyes to be put out on the spot.  He stripped the silk from the kinglet's fat limbs, and ordered a sign to be made to cover his nakedness...and on that sign he had the words "Pity the Poor King of Andalusia".  With that, he gathered the several courtiers who had attended Abdallah, and God allowed some of His mercy to calm the king's blood, so he sent them away untouched. 

        But Abdallah lived for another eight years in rags, on the renowned charity of the people of Fez, and it is said that even the ladies of the palace would declaim over his misfortune.  But for the rest of his short life, Abdallah the Valiant would tell his tale of woe all day in the souke, and in the evening, glide his tap tap tapping way to an improvised sleeping place."

        "What became of the lady"

        "Ah, now that is another long story gentlemen.  However it is known that she became pregnant is some palace intrique, and was sent to Mellilla to live out her days in isolated disgrace.  If some noticed the fiery red hair of an Andelusian on the tiny child head, they kept their mouths shut about it, however it is from that union that I claim my descent."

"A most remarkable tale old man" spake the melodious voice of the professional.  I doubt I would be able to do better.  My stories are also of "Great Men", and of course, since ordinary men do not make history, I prefer stories of evil men.  Especially when they are dead and cannot get at  me," he chuckled". If we are comfortable, I might tell a rather shorter tale of the Mad Caliph of Cairo.  
      The assembly murmured their ascent, since it was early yet, and another story would not be a bad thing....especially since they saw that the strong tale weaver had been stung into telling much better tales than he was prepared to part with on the long ride thus far!