Ramadan Kareem to all Egyptian Chronicles readers.
Before we continue and know what will happen to Abriza — it’s time for our little chit-chat.
*Spoiler and warning*
Tonight’s episode is a bit graphic — in fact, it is one of the most graphic episodes written by Taher Abu Fasha.
It deals with rape. Remember, this was written and broadcast on Egypt’s State Radio in the 1950s — a period often considered the peak of social conservatism in the country.
Because of that warning, I must say that this episode — and its original version in One Thousand and One Nights — particularly the part concerning Abriza, strongly reminds me of the tragedy of Medea, the princess and priestess of Colchis. Medea turned against her own people and left her kingdom out of love for Jason, only to face rejection in his homeland and descend into tragedy.
Abriza’s story offers a similar form of indirect wisdom, echoing the structure and moral weight of Greek tragedy. It serves as a cautionary tale — a warning to women everywhere, across time and place, to think carefully and not follow the heart blindly.
Now enough talking. I hope the episode won't be alarming to anyone.
So without further delay, here is the fourth episode of our story: The Tale of King al-Nu’man, the 96th night of One Thousand and One Nights, as broadcast on Egyptian State Radio.
Episode 5: The Shadow of Medea
The Ninety-Sixth Night
When it was the Ninety-Sixth Night, and the night that followed, King Shahriyar took his seat as on the evening before. And Shahrazad came at her appointed hour and resumed her tale, joining what had been severed from what had passed.
She said:
It has reached me, O King of happy fortune and sound judgment, that when King Al-Nu’man withdrew with his vizier Dandan and confessed the turmoil of his heart — how his own son had become his rival in love — the vizier pondered long and devised a subtle scheme.
He counseled the king to use strategy rather than force. Let Prince Sharkan be appointed governor of a distant province, that he might be occupied with rule and authority, distracted from desire, and removed from rivalry — and thus the king might win the fair princess Abriza for himself.
The plan was drawn carefully.
And the king began to execute it, step by measured step.
He summoned Prince Sharkan.
When the prince entered the hall, the king turned toward him.
King Al-Nu’man: Sharkan.
Sharkan: My lord.
King Al-Nu’man: Come, my son. I have words for you.
Sharkan: I listen.
King Al-Nu’man: What is your opinion of the Land of Al-Marjan?
Sharkan: My opinion, O King of the Age?
The king sighed theatrically.
“My son, I have grown old. One foot stands within the grave and one without. I would leave you the throne with a tranquil heart. Therefore I wish to train you in governance and the politics of rule. I have resolved to appoint you governor of Al-Marjan.”
Sharkan regarded him steadily.
“Is this a proposal in which I have choice — or a command I must obey?”
The king’s gaze sharpened.
“You may consider it either.”
“If it is a proposal,” said Sharkan quietly, “I am at ease. If it is a command…”
“The command belongs to its master,” replied the king coldly.
A silence fell.
Sharkan’s voice hardened.
“I know why you do this.”
“Why?”
“To clear the path for yourself with Abriza.”
The king’s face flushed with fury.
“Silence, insolent boy! Abriza is not yours, nor are you hers! She is but a captive maiden — nothing more!”
Sharkan stepped forward.
“A captive? Who sold her to you? She is no slave here. She is our honored guest — and she loves me, as I love her. You have no claim over her heart.”
The king’s restraint shattered.
“You dare speak thus to me?”
He struck the arm of his throne and cried:
“Hassan!”
The guard appeared.
“Take this boy from my sight. Cast him into the Prison of Brass. Double the watch upon him!”
Sharkan did not resist as they seized him.
“Imprison me,” he called as he was dragged away. “Kill me if you must! But you will never possess her heart. You are unjust — a tyrant — a tyrant!”
His voice echoed down the corridor.
That same night, the king went to Abriza.
His manner was softened — almost contrite.
King Al-Nu’man: You believed me, Abriza? Do you know why I have come?
Abriza: Why, my lord?
“I feared I had wounded you. I have come to ask pardon.”
She bowed her head.
“You owe me none.”
He smiled faintly.
“You believed that I loved you as a man loves a woman? I was testing your heart. You are as a daughter to me. Sharkan is my son — and your loyalty to him pleases me.”
Relief passed across her face.
“That eases my heart. What father rivals his son in love? But then — why have you imprisoned him?”
“Imprisoned?” he said lightly. “Only because he refused the governorship of Al-Marjan.”
“And if I persuade him to accept?”
“I shall release him at once. More than that — I had intended to wed you to him, to send him to his province with his bride at his side.”
Her eyes shone.
“My lord…”
“Were you mistaken in me?” he asked gently.
She lowered her head.
“I wronged you in my thoughts. Forgive me.”
He laughed softly — too softly.
“You are forgiven. And you have passed your test. Your love for Sharkan is true.”
He signaled to Hassan.
“Bring food and drink.”
The trays were set before them.
“We shall celebrate in advance,” he said smoothly.
Wine was poured.
“Drink, Abriza. A cup to Sharkan’s health.”
“I do not drink, my lord.”
“It is for Sharkan.”
She hesitated.
“For Sharkan.”
She drank.
“And another,” said the king. “For Sharkan’s father.”
She drank again.
A third cup followed.
Her hand trembled.
“My head… it spins…”
The king watched without expression.
Her voice faded.
“My head… from one cup to another… I… I am…”
Her words dissolved into silence.
Abriza fell into unconsciousness.
The king rose slowly.
Hours later Abriza awoke in her chamber.
She wept — not with anger alone, but with a brokenness that seemed to hollow the air itself.
Beside her stood her faithful attendant, Lu’lu’a.
Lu’lu’a: Do not weep, my lady. God is the Avenger.
Abriza’s voice trembled.
Abriza: The beast deceived me. He drugged my wine… robbed me of my senses… Oh, my promise… my honor…
Lu’lu’a: Patience, my lady.
Abriza pressed her hands against her breast.
“Were it not for the child within me, I would have ended my life.”
Lu’lu’a gasped.
“You must not speak so! You must live — if not for yourself, then to avenge your honor.”
Abriza closed her eyes.
“What honor remains? This is my recompense. I abandoned my father and my people. I turned against my own blood… and fell into the hands of one who did not protect me.”
A long silence passed.
Then she spoke again, her voice steadier.
“Do you know the slave called Al-Ghadban?”
“I know him.”
“Take this ring to him. Ask if he will help us flee — back to our homeland. I will reward him richly.”
Lu’lu’a hesitated.
“To return… after all that has passed?”
Abriza whispered:
“We have no refuge here.”
They fled by night.
The sands stretched without mercy.
Abriza rode in pain.
At last she faltered.
“I cannot… I am overcome.”
“You should not have traveled in your condition,” said Lu’lu’a anxiously.
Abriza winced.
“I did not know the hour would come upon the road.”
The desert wind carried their words.
Al-Ghadban approached, his manner altered — bold now.
“Well? How fares the lady?”
Lu’lu’a stepped between him and Abriza.
“Leave us.”
He laughed.
“Leave? There is nowhere to leave.”
Abriza looked at him sharply.
“You have taken our jewels. There is nothing left for you.”
His smile darkened.
“There is something.”
She stared.
“I want you, Abriza.”
Lu’lu’a cried out.
“Have you lost your senses? She is a princess!”
He sneered.
“There is no court here. No king. No army. Only you… and me.”
Abriza struggled to rise, though weakened by pain.
“Even the slave covets me?” she whispered bitterly. “Then death is nobler.”
He lunged.
Lu’lu’a screamed.
Abriza seized a blade — and struck.
Steel flashed.
A cry tore through the desert air.
But the blow did not fall cleanly.
She staggered.
Blood darkened her garments.
She fell.
Lu’lu’a: My lady! My lady!
Al-Ghadban recoiled, startled by the sight of blood.
Then — in the distance — a cloud of dust rose upon the horizon.
He froze.
“Riders…”
Fear seized him.
“Where is the horse?”
He fled into the desert.
The dust drew near.
From it emerged King Hardoub at the head of his formidable army.
He saw her.
His banners lowered.
His voice failed him.
There, upon the sands, lay his daughter — Abriza, the Golden One.
He dismounted.
He knelt.
And the king who had ruled men trembled like a father broken.
He bore her body back to his city.
He buried her with royal rites.
And when the mourning was done, he summoned her grandmother.
But before she entered, and before the reckoning of kings could unfold—
The dawn overtook Shahrazad, and she fell silent until another night.
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