Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

Chapter 11

XIMENES IS SITTING AT his desk thinking.

My skin is perhaps too dark, my eyes are not blue but dark brown, my nose is hooked and long, and yet I am sure, yes sure, that my blood is without taint. My forefathers were here when the Romans came and my family is much older than the Visigoth ancestors of the noble Count, our brave Captain-General. Why do they whisper I have Jewish blood in me? Is it a cruel joke? Or are some disaffected Dominicans spreading this poison to discredit me inside the Church so that they can once again stray into the land of deceit and confuse the distinctions between ourselves and the followers of Moses and the false prophet Mahomet? Whatever their reasoning, it is not true. Do you hear me? It is not true. My blood is pure! Pure as we shall make this kingdom one day. I shall neither weep nor complain at these endless insults, but carry on God’s work. The wolves call me a beast, but they dare not attack me for they know the price they will have to pay for my blood. The worship of Mary and the pain felt by Him who was crucified awakens mysterious emotions inside me. In my dreams I often see myself as a Crusader below the ramparts of Jerusalem or catching sight of Constantinople. My memory is rooted in the time of Christianity, but why am I always alone, even in my dreams? No family. No friends. No pity for the inferior races. There is no Jewish blood in me. Not even one tiny drop. No. On this I have no doubts.

A spy had informed Ximenes a few hours ago that at the conclusion of a banquet the previous night, after a great deal of wine had been imbibed and the assembled party of Muslim and Christian noblemen, together with Jewish merchants, were being entertained by dancing-girls, a courtier had remarked that it was a great pity that the Archbishop of Toledo could not be present to enjoy such pleasant company, upon which the Captain-General, Don Inigo, had been heard to remark that the reason for the prelate’s absence might well be that in the candle-light it was impossible to tell him apart from a Jew. He had not stopped there, but insisted loudly, amidst general laughter that this could be one reason why His Grace shunned the company of Jews even more than of Moors. For whereas Moorish features were indistinguishable from those of Christians, the Jews had preserved their own special traits with much greater care, as a close inspection of Ximenes clearly revealed.

At this point a Moorish nobleman, stroking his luxuriant red beard and with a twinkle in his shiny blue eyes, had asked Don Inigo whether it was true that the reason the Archbishop was determined to destroy the followers of the one God had much more to do with proving his own racial purity than with defending the Trinity. Don Inigo had assumed a mock-serious expression and shouted that the suggestion was preposterous, then winked at his guests.

Ximenes dismissed the spy with an angry wave of the hand, to imply that he was not interested in these trivial pieces of malicious gossip. In reality he was livid with rage. That he was cursed and reviled by deceitful Moorish tongues was a well-known fact. Not a single day passed without reports of how he was being abused, by whom and in which streets of the city. The list was long, but he would deal with every single offender when the time was ripe. With such thoughts stirring in his head and increasing the flow of bile in his system, it is hardly surprising that the Archbishop’s disposition that particular morning was not generous.

It was at this exact moment that there was a knock on the door.

‘Enter!’ he said in that deceptively weak voice.

Barrionuevo, a royal bailiff, entered the room and kissed the ring. ‘With your permission. Your Grace, the two renegades have fled to the old quarter and taken refuge in the house of their mother.’

‘I do not seem to be familiar with this case. Remind me.’

Barrionuevo cleared his throat. He was not used to declamations or explanations. He was given his orders and he carried them out. He was at a loss for words. He did not know the details of these two men. ‘All I know is their names, Your Grace. Abengarcia and Abenfernando. I am told they convened to our faith…’

‘I recall them now,’ came the icy response. ‘They pretended to convert, but inside they remained followers of Mahomet’s sect. They were seen committing an act of sacrilege in our church. They urinated on a crucifix, man! Bring them back to me. I want them questioned today. You may go.’

‘Should I take an escort, Your Grace? There might be resistance without it.’

‘Yes, but make sure that there are no more than six armed men with you. Otherwise there will be trouble.’

Ximenes rose from his desk and walked to the arched window from where he could see the streets below him. For the first time that day he smiled, confident in the knowledge that some of the more hot-headed Moors would be provoked by the bailiff and the soldiers to take up arms. That would be the end for them. Instead of taking his usual walk to inspect the construction of the new cathedral, he decided to stay at the al-Hamra and await the return of Barrionuevo. The unpleasantness occasioned by the report from last night’s banquet had receded. In its place there was a feeling of burning excitement. Ximenes fell on his knees before the giant crucifix which disfigured the intricate geometric patterns on the three-colour tiles that comprised the wall.

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, I pray that our enemies will not fail me today.’

When he rose to his feet he discovered that the fire burning in his head had spread to just below his waist. That portion of his anatomy which had been placed out of bounds for all those who took the holy orders, was in a state of rebellion. Ximenes poured some water into a goblet and gulped it down without pause. His thirst was quenched.

From the heart of the old city, Zuhayr and his comrades were walking towards the site of the new cathedral in an exaggeratedly casual fashion. They were in groups of two, tense and nervous, behaving as though they had no connection with each other, but united in the belief that they were drawing close to a dual triumph. The hated enemy, the torturer of their fellow-believers, would soon be dead and they, his killers, would be assured of martyrdom and an easy passage to paradise.

They had met for an early breakfast to perfect their plans. Each one of the eight men had risen solemnly in turn and had bidden a formal farewell to the others: ‘Till we meet again in heaven.’

Early that morning Zuhayr had begun to write a letter to Umar, detailing his adventures on the road to Gharnata, describing the painful dilemma which had confronted him and explaining his final decision to participate in the action which was favoured by everyone except himself:

We will set a trap for Cisneros, but even if we succeed in dispatching him, I know full well that we will all, each and every one of us, fall into it ourselves. Everything is very different from what I imagined. The situation for the Gharnatinos has become much worse since your last visit. There is both outrage and demoralization. They are determined to convert us and Cisneros has authorized the use of torture to aid this process. Of course many people submit to the pain, but it drives them mad. After converting they become desperate, walk into churches and excrete on the altar, urinate in the holy font, smear the crucifixes with impure substances and rush out laughing in the fashion of people who have lost their mind. Cisneros reacts with fury and so the whole cycle is repeated. The feeling here is that while Cisneros lives nothing will change except for the worse. I do not believe that his death will improve matters, but it will, without any doubt, ease the mental agony suffered by so many of our people.

I may not survive this day and I kiss all of you in turn, especially Yazid, who must never be allowed to repeat his brother’s mistakes…

Zuhayr and Ibn Basit were about to cross the road when they saw Barrionuevo the bailiff and six soldiers heading in their direction. Fortunately nobody panicked, but as Barrionuevo halted in front of Zuhayr, the other three groups abandoned the march to their destination and turning leftwards, disappeared back into a warren of narrow side-streets as had been previously agreed.

‘Why are you carrying a sword?’ asked Barrionuevo.

‘Forgive me sir,’ replied Zuhayr. ‘I do not belong to Gharnata. I am here for a few days from al-Hudayl to stay with my friend. Is it forbidden to carry swords in the street now?’

‘Yes,’ replied the bailiff. ‘Your friend here should have known better. Be on your way, but first return to your friend’s home and get rid of the sword.’

Ibn Basit and Zuhayr were greatly relieved. They had no alternative but to turn around and walk back to the Funduq. The others were waiting, and there were exclamations of delight when Zuhayr and Ibn Basit entered the room.

‘I thought we had lost you forever,’ said Ibn Amin, embracing the pair of them.

Zuhayr saw the relief on their faces and knew at once that it was not just the sight of Ibn Basit and himself which had relaxed the tension. There was something else. That much was obvious from the satisfied expression on Ibn Amin’s face. Zuhayr looked at his friend and raised his eyebrows expectantly. Ibn Amin spoke.

‘We must cancel our plan. A friend in the palace has sent us a message. Ximenes has trebled his guard and has cancelled his plans to visit the city today. I felt there was something strange in the air. Did you notice that the streets were virtually deserted?’

Zuhayr could not conceal his delight.

‘Allah, be praised!’ he exulted. ‘Fate has intervened to prevent our sacrifice. But you are right, Ibn Amin. The atmosphere is tense. Why is this so? Has it anything to do with the royal bailiff’s errand?’

While they continued to speculate and began to discuss whether they should venture back to the streets and investigate the situation, an old servant of the Funduq ran into their room.

‘Pray masters, please hurry to the Street of the Water-Carriers. The word is that you should take your weapons.’

Zuhayr picked up his sword again. The others uncovered their daggers as they rushed out of the Funduq al-Yadida. They did not have to search very hard to find the place. What sounded like a low humming noise was getting louder and louder. It seemed as if the whole population of the quarter was on the streets.

Through the fringed horseshoe arches of homes and workshops, more and more people were beginning to pour out on to the streets. The beating of copperware, the loud wails and an orchestra of tambourines had brought them all together. Water-carriers and carpet-sellers mingled with fruit merchants and the faqihs. It was a motley crowd and it was angry, that much was obvious to the conspirators of the Funduq, but why? What had happened to incite a mass which, till yesterday, had seemed so passive?

A stray acquaintance of Ibn Amin, a fellow Jew, coming from the scene of battle, excitedly told them everything that had happened till the moment he had to leave in order to tend his sick father.

‘The royal bailiff and his soldiers went to the house of the widow in the Street of the Water-Carriers. Her two sons had taken refuge there last night. The bailiff said that the Archbishop wished to see them today. The widow, angered by the arrival of soldiers, would not let them into the house. When they threatened to break down the door she poured a pan of boiling water from the balcony.

‘One of the soldiers was badly burnt. His screams were horrible.’

The memory choked the storyteller’s voice and he began to tremble.

‘Calm down, friend,’ said Zuhayr, stroking his head. ‘There is no cause for you to worry. Tell me what happened afterwards.’

‘It got worse, much worse,’ began Ibn Amin’s friend. ‘The bailiff was half-scared and half-enraged by this defiance. He ordered his men to break into the house and arrest the widow’s sons. The commotion began to attract other people and soon there were over two hundred young men, who barricaded the street at both ends. Slowly they began to move towards the bailiff and his men. One of the soldiers got so scared that he wet himself and pleaded for mercy. They let him go. The others raised their swords, which was fatal. The people hemmed them in so tight that the soldiers were crushed against the wall. Then the son of al-Wahab, the oil merchant, lifted a sword off the ground. It had been dropped by one of the soldiers. He walked straight to the bailiff and dragged him into the centre of the street. “Mother,” he shouted to the widow who was watching everything from the window. “Yes, my son,” she replied with a joyous look on her face. “Tell me,” said Ibn Wahab. “How should this wretch be punished?” The old lady put a finger to her throat. The crowd fell silent. The bailiff, Barrionuevo by name, fell to the ground, pleading for mercy. He was like a trapped animal. His head touched Ibn Wahab’s feet. At that precise moment the raised sword descended. It only took one blow. Barrionuevo’s severed head fell on the street. A stream of blood is still flowing in the Street of the Water-Carriers.’

‘And the soldiers?’ asked Zuhayr. ‘What have they done to the soldiers?’

‘Their fate is still under discussion in the square. The soldiers are being guarded by hundreds of armed men at the Bab al-Ramla.’

‘Come,’ said Zuhayr somewhat self-importantly to his companions. ‘We must take part in this debate. The life of every believer in Gharnata may depend on the outcome.’

The crowds were so thick that every street in the maze had become virtually impassable. Either you moved with the crowd or you did not move at all. And still the people were coming out. Here were the tanners from the rabbad al-Dabbagan, their legs still bare, their skin still covered with dyes of different colours. The tambourine makers had left their workshops in the rabbad al-Difaf and joined the throng. They were adding to the noise by extracting every sound possible from the instrument. The potters from the rabbad al-Fajjarin had come armed with sacks full of defective pots, and marching by their side, also heavily armed, were the brick-makers from the rabbad al-Tawwabin.

Suddenly Zuhayr saw a sight which moved and excited him. Scores of women, young and old, veiled and unveiled, were carrying aloft the silken green and silver standards of the Moorish knights, which they and their ancestors had sewn and embroidered for over five hundred years in the rabbad al-Bunud. They were handing out hundreds of tiny silver crescents to the children. Young boys and girls were competing with each other to grab a crescent. Zuhayr thought of Yazid. How he would have relished all this and how proudly he would have worn his crescent. Zuhayr had thought he would never see Yazid again, but since his own plan of challenging individual Christian knights to armed combat had collapsed and the plot to assassinate Cisneros had been postponed out of necessity. Zuhayr began to think of the future once again and the image of his brother, studying everything with his intelligent eyes, never left him.

Every street, every alley, resembled a river in flood, flowing in the direction of a buoyant sea of humanity near the Bab al-Ramla Gate. The chants would rise and recede like waves. Everyone was waiting for the storm.

Zuhayr was determined to speak in favour of sparing the soldiers. He suddenly noticed that they were in the rabbad al-Kuhl, the street which housed the producers of antimony. It was here that silver containers were loaded with the liquid, which had enhanced the beauty of countless eyes since the city was first built. This meant that they were not far from the palace of his Uncle Hisham. And underneath that large mansion there was a passage which led directly to the Bab al-Ramla. It had been built when the house was constructed, precisely in order to enable the nobleman or trader living in it to escape easily when he was under siege by rivals whose cause had triumphed and whose faction had emerged victorious in the never-ending palace conflicts which always cast a permanent shadow on the city.

Zuhayr signalled to his friends to follow him in silence. He knocked on the deceptively modest front door of Hisham’s house. An old family retainer looked through a tiny latticed window on the first floor and recognized Zuhayr. He rushed down the stairs, opened the door and let them all in, but appeared extremely agitated.

‘The master made me swear not to admit any person today except members of the family. There are spies everywhere. A terrible crime has been committed and Satan’s monk will want his vengeance in blood.’

‘Old friend,’ said Zuhayr with a benevolent wink. ‘We are not here to stay, but to disappear. You need not even tell your master that you let us in. I know the way to the underground passage. Trust in Allah.’

The old man understood. He led them to the concealed entrance in the courtyard and lifted a tile to reveal a tiny hook. Zuhayr smiled. How many times had he and Ibn Hisham’s children left the house after dark for clandestine assignments with lovers via this very route. He tugged gently at the hook and lifted a square cover, cleverly disguised as a set of sixteen tiles. He helped his friends down the hole and then joined them, but not before he had embraced the servant, who had been with his uncle ever since Zuhayr could remember.

‘May Allah protect you all today,’ said the old man as he replaced the cover and returned the courtyard to normal.

Within a few minutes, they were at the old market. Zuhayr had feared that the exit to the tunnel might be impossible to lift because of the crowds, but fate favoured them. The cover was raised without any hindrance. As seven men emerged from underneath the floor on to the roofed entrance to the marker, a group of bewildered citizens watched in amazement. The men were followed by a disembodied weapon: Zuhayr had handed his sword through the hole to Ibn Basit, who had preceded him. Now he lifted himself up, replacing the stone immediately so that in the general confusion its exact location would be forgotten.

It was a scene that none of them would forget. They saw the backs of tens of thousands of men, women and children who had assembled near the Bab al-Ramla in a spirit of vengeance. This is where they had stood in 1492 and watched in disbelief as the crescent was hurled down from the battlements of the al-Hamra, accompanied by the deafening noise of bells interspersed with Christian hymns. This is where they had stood in silence last year while Cisneros, the man they called ‘Satan’s priest,’ had burnt their books. And it was in this square only a month later that drunken Christian soldiers had tipped the turbans off the heads of two venerable Imams.

The Moors of Gharnata were not a hard or stubborn people, but they had been ceded to the Christians without being permitted to resist, and this had made them very bitter. Their anger, repressed for over eight years, had come out into the open. They were in a mood to attempt even the most desperate measures. They would have stormed the al-Hamra, torn Ximenes limb from limb, burnt down churches and castrated any monk they could lay their hands on. This made them dangerous. Not to the enemy, but to themselves. Deprived by their last ruler of the chance to resist the Christian armies, they felt that it was time they reasserted themselves.

It is sometimes argued, usually by those who fear the multitude, that any gathering which exceeds a dozen people becomes a willing prey to any demagogue capable of firing its passions, and thus it is capable only of irrationality. Such a view is designed to ignore the underlying causes which have brought together so many people and with so many diverse interests. All rivalries, political and commercial, had been set aside; all blood-feuds had been cancelled; a truce had been declared between the warring theological factions within the house of al-Andalusian Islam; the congregation was united against the Christian occupiers. What had begun as a gesture of solidarity with a widow’s right to protect her children had turned into a semi-insurrection.

Ibn Wahab, the proud and thoughtless executioner of the royal bailiff, stood on a hastily constructed wooden platform, his head in the clouds. He was dreaming of the al-Hamra and the posture in which he would sit when he received ambassadors from Isabella, pleading for peace. Unhappily his first attempt at oratory had been a miserable failure. He had been constantly interrupted.

‘Why are you mumbling?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Talk louder!’

‘Who do you think you are addressing? Your beardless chin?’

Angered by this lack of respect, Ibn Wahab had raised his voice in the fashion of the preachers. He had spoken for almost thirty minutes in a language so flowery and ornate, so crowded with metaphors and so full of references to famous victories stretching from Dimashk to the Maghreb that even those most sympathetic to him amongst the audience were heard remarking that the speaker was like an empty vessel, noisy, but devoid of content.

The only concrete measure he had proposed was the immediate execution of the soldiers and the display of their heads on poles. The response had been muted, which caused a qadi to enquire if there was anybody else who wished to speak.

‘Yes!’ roared Zuhayr. He lifted the sword above his head and, with erect shoulders and an uplifted face, he moved towards the platform. His comrades followed him and the crowd, partially bemused by the oddity of the procession, made way. Many recognized him as a scion of the Banu Hudayl. The qadi asked Ibn Wahab to step down and Zuhayr was lifted on to the platform by a host of willing hands. He had never spoken before at a public gathering, let alone one of this size, and he was shaking like an autumn leaf.

‘In the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Beneficent.’ Zuhayr began in the most traditional fashion possible. He did not dwell for long on the glories of their religion, nor did he mention the past. He spoke simply of the tragedy that had befallen them and the even greater tragedy that lay ahead. He found himself using phrases which sounded oddly familiar. They were. He had picked them up from al-Zindiq and Abu Zaid. He concluded with an unpopular appeal.

‘Even as I speak to you, the soldier who witnessed the execution is at the al-Hamra, describing every detail. But put yourself in his place. He is racked by fear. To make himself sound brave, he exaggerates everything. Soon the Captain-General will bring his soldiers down the hill to demand the release of these men whom we have made our prisoners. Unlike my brother Ibn Wahab I do not believe that we should kill them. I would suggest that we let them go. If we do not, the Christians will kill ten of us for each soldier. I ask you: is their death worth the destruction of a single believer? To release them now would be a sign of our strength, not weakness. Once we have let them go we should elect from amongst ourselves a delegation which will speak on our behalf. I have many other things to say, but I will hold my tongue till you pronounce your judgement on the fate of these soldiers. I do not wish to speak any more in their presence.’

To his amazement, Zuhayr’s remarks were greeted with applause and much nodding of heads. When the qadi asked the assembly whether the soldiers should be freed or killed the response was overwhelmingly in favour of their release. Zuhayr and his friends did not wait for instructions. They rushed to where the men were being held prisoner. Zuhayr unsheathed his sword and cut the rope which bound them. Then he marched them to the edge of the crowd and pointed with his sword in the direction of the al-Hamra and sent them on their way. The incredulous soldiers nodded in silent gratitude and ran away as fast as their legs could take them.

In the palace, just as Zuhayr had told them, the soldier who had been permitted to leave earlier, assuming that his comrades would by now have been decapitated, had embellished his own role in the episode. The Archbishop heard every word in silence, then rose without uttering a word, indicated to the soldier that he should follow him and walked to the rooms occupied by the Count of Tendilla. He was received without delay and the soldier found himself reciting his tale of woe once again.

‘Your Excellency will no doubt agree,’ began Ximenes, ‘that unless we respond with firmness to this rebellion, all the victories achieved by our King and Queen in this city will be under threat.’

‘My dear Archbishop,’ responded the Count in a deceptively friendly tone, ‘I wish there were more like you in the holy orders of our Church, so loyal to the throne and so devoted to increasing the property and thereby the weight and standing of the Church.

‘However, I wish to make something plain. I do not agree with your assessment. This wretched man is lying to justify falling on his knees before the killers of Barrionuevo. Not for one minute will I accept that our military position is threatened by this mob. I would have thought that, if anything, it was Your Grace’s offensive on behalf of the Holy Spirit which was under threat.’

Ximenes was enraged by the remark, especially since it was uttered in the presence of a soldier who would repeat it to his friends: within hours the news would be all over the city. He curbed his anger till he had, with an imperious gesture of the right hand, dismissed the soldier from their presence.

‘Your Excellency does not seem to appreciate that until these people are subdued and made to respect the Church, they will never be loyal to the crown!’

‘For a loyal subject of the Queen, Your Grace appears to be ignorant of the agreements we signed with the Sultan at the time of his surrender. This is not the first occasion when I have had to remind you of the solemn pledges that were given to the Moors. They were to be permitted the right to worship their God and believe in their Prophet without any hindrance. They could speak their own language, marry each other and bury their dead as they had done for centuries. It is you, my dear Archbishop, who have provoked this uprising. You have reduced them to a miserable condition, and you only feign surprise when they resist. They are not animals, man! They are flesh of our flesh and blood of our blood.

‘I sometimes ask myself how the same Mother Church could have produced two such different children as the Dominicans and the Franciscans. Cain and Abel? Tell me something, Friar Cisneros. When you were being trained in that monastery near Toledo, what did they give you to drink?’

Cisneros understood that the anger of the Captain-General was caused by his knowledge that a military response was indispensable to restore order. He had triumphed. He decided to humour the Count.

‘I am amazed that a great military leader like Your Excellency should have time to study the different religious orders born out of our Mother Church. Not Cain and Abel, Excellency. Never that. Treat them, if it pleases you, as the two loving sons of a widowed mother. The first son is tough and disciplined, defends his mother against the unwelcome attentions of all unwanted suitors. The other, equally loving, is, however, lax and easygoing; he leaves the door of his house wide open and does not care who enters or departs. The mother needs them both and loves them equally, but ask yourself this, Excellency, who protects her the best?’

Don Inigo was vexed by the Archbishop’s spuriously friendly, patronizing tone. His touchy sense of pride was offended. A religious upstart attempting to become familiar with a Mendoza? How dare Cisneros behave in this fashion? He gave the prelate a contemptuous look.

‘Your Grace of course has a great deal of experience with widowed mothers and their two sons. Was it not in pursuit of one such widow and her two unfortunate boys that you sent the royal bailiff to his death today?’

The Archbishop realizing that anything he said today would be rebuffed, rose and took his leave. The Count’s fists unclenched. He clapped loudly. When two attendants appeared he barked out a series of orders.

‘Prepare my armour and my horse. Tell Don Alonso I will need three hundred soldiers to accompany me to the Bibarrambla. I wish to leave before the next hour is struck.’

In the city the mood had changed a great deal. The release of the soldiers had given the people a feeling of immense self-confidence. They felt morally superior to their enemies. Nothing appeared frightening any more. Vendors of food and drink had made their appearance. The bakers had shut their shops and pastry stalls had been hastily assembled in the Bab al-Ramla. Food and sweetmeats were being freely distributed. Children were improvising simple songs and dancing. The tension had evaporated. Zuhayr knew it was only a temporary respite. Fear had momentarily retired below the surface. It had been replaced by a festival-like atmosphere, but it was only an hour ago that he had heard the beating of hearts.

Zuhayr was the hero of the day. Older citizens had been regaling him with stories of the exploits of his great-grandfather, most of which he had heard before, while others he knew could not possibly be true. He was nodding amiably at the white beards and smiling, but no longer listening. His thoughts were in the al-Hamra, and there they would have remained had not a familiar voice disturbed his reverie.

‘You are thinking, are you not, that some great misfortune is about to befall us here?’

‘Al-Zindiq!’ Zuhayr shouted as he embraced his old friend. ‘You look so different. How can you have changed so much in the space of two weeks? Zahra’s death?’

‘Time feasts and drinks on an ageing man, Zuhayr al-Fahl. One day, when you have passed the age of seventy, you too will realize this fact.’

‘If I live that long,’ muttered Zuhayr in a more introspective mood. He was delighted to see al-Zindiq, and not simply because he could poach a few more ideas from him. He was pleased that al-Zindiq had seen him at the height of his powers, receiving the accolades of the Gharnatinos. But the old sceptic’s inner makeup remained unchanged.

‘My young friend,’ he told Zuhayr in a voice full of affection, ‘our lives are lived underneath an arch which extends from our birth to the grave. It is old age and death which explain the allure of youth. And its disdain for the future.’

‘Yes,’ said Zuhayr as he began to grasp where all this was heading, ‘but the breach between old age and youth is not as final as you are suggesting.’

‘How so?’

‘Remember a man who had just approached his sixtieth year, a rare enough event in our peninsula. He was walking on the outskirts of al-Hudayl and saw three boys, all of them fifty years or more younger than him, perched on a branch near the top of a tree. One of the boys shouted some insult or other comparing his shaven head to the posterior of some animal. Experience dictated that the old man ignore the remark and walk away, but instead, to the great amazement of the boys, he clambered straight up the tree and took them by surprise. The boy who had insulted him became his lifelong friend.’

Al-Zindiq chuckled.

‘I climbed the tree precisely to teach you that nothing should ever be taken for granted.’

‘Exactly so. I learnt the lesson well.’

‘In that case, my friend, make sure that you do not lead these people into a trap. The girl who survived the massacre at al-Hama still cannot bear the sight of rain. She imagines that it is red.’

‘Zuhayr bin Umar, Ibn Basit, Ibn Wahab. A meeting of The Forty is taking place inside the silk market now!’

Zuhayr thanked al-Zindiq for his advice and hurriedly took his leave. He walked to the spacious room of a silk trader which had been made available to them. The old man could not help but notice the alteration in his young friend’s gait. His natural tendency would have been to run to the meeting place, but he had walked away in carefully measured steps while his demeanour had assumed an air of self-importance. Al-Zindiq smiled and shook his head. It was as if he had seen the ghost of Ibn Farid.

The assembly of citizens had elected a committee of forty men, and given them the authority to negotiate on behalf of the whole town. Zuhayr and his seven friends had all been elected, but so had Ibn Wahab. Most of the others members of The Forty were demobilized Moorish knights. Just as Zuhayr entered the meeting a messenger from the al-Hamra kitchens was speaking in excited tones of the preparations for a counter-offensive under way at the palace.

‘The armour of the Captain-General himself is being got ready. He will be accompanied by three hundred soldiers. Their swords were being sharpened even as I left.’

‘We should ambush them,’ suggested Ibn Wahab. ‘Pour oil on them and set it alight.’

‘Better a sane enemy than an insane friend,’ muttered the qadi dismissing the suggestion with a frown.

‘Let us prepare as we have planned,’ said Zuhayr as the meeting ended and The Forty returned to the square.

The qadi mounted the platform and announced that the soldiers were on their way. The smiles disappeared. The vendors began to pack their wares, ready to depart. The crowd became anxious and nervous conversations erupted in every corner. The qadi asked people to remain calm. Women and children and the elderly were sent home.

Everyone else had been assigned special positions in case the Christian army tried to conquer the heart of the city. The men departed to their previously agreed posts. Precautions had already been taken and the defence plan was now put into operation. Within thirty minutes an effective barricade was in place. The kiln-workers, stonemasons and carpenters had organized this crowd into an orgy of collective labour. The barrier had been constructed with great skill, sealing off all the points of entry into the old quarter — what the qadi always referred to as ‘the city of believers.’

How amazing, thought Zuhayr, that they have done this all by themselves. The qadi did not need to invoke our past or call upon the Almighty for them to achieve what they have done. He looked around to see if he could sight al-Zindiq, but the old man had been sheltered for the night. And where, Zuhayr wondered, is Abu Zaid and his crazy family of reborn al-Ma’aris? Why are they not here? They should see the strength of our people. If a new army is to be built to defend our way of life, then these good people are its soldiers. Without them we will fail.

‘The soldiers!’ someone shouted, and the Bab al-Ramla fell silent. In the distance the sound of soldiers’ feet as they trampled on the paved streets grow louder and louder.

‘The Captain-General is at their head, dressed in all his finery!’ shouted another look-out.

Zuhayr gave a signal, which was repeated by five volunteers standing in different parts of the square. The team of three hundred young men, their satchels full of brickbats, stiffened and stretched their arms. The front line of stone-throwers was in place. The noise of the marching feet had become very loud.

The Count of Tendilla, Captain-General of the Christian armies in Gharnata, pulled his horse to a standstill as he found himself facing an impassable obstacle. The wooden doors lifted from their hinges, piles of half-bricks, steel bars and rubble of every sort had raised a fortification the like of which the Count had not encountered before in the course of numerous battles. He knew that it would need several hundred more soldiers to dismantle the edifice, and he also knew that the Moors would not stand idly watching as the structure came down. Of course he would win in the end, there could be no doubt on that score, but it would be messy and bloody. He raised his voice and shouted over the barricade: ‘In the name of our King and Queen I ask you to remove this obstacle and let my escort accompany me into the city.’

The stone-throwers moved into action. An eerie music began as a storm of brickbats showered on the uplifted shields of the Christian soldiers. The Count understood the message. The Moorish elders had decided to break off all relations with the palace.

‘I do not accept the breach between us,’ shouted the Captain-General. ‘I will return with reinforcements unless you receive me within the hour.’

He rode away angrily without waiting for his men. The sight of the soldiers running after their leader caused much merriment in the ranks of the Gharnatinos.

The Forty were less amused. They knew that sooner or later they would have to negotiate with Mendoza. Ibn Wahab wanted a fight at all costs and he won some support, but the majority decided to send a messenger to the al-Hamra, signifying their willingness to talk.

It was dark when the Count returned. The barricade had been removed by the defenders. Men with torches led the Captain-General to the silk market. He was received by The Forty in the room where they had held their meetings. He looked closely at their faces, trying to memorize their features. As he was introduced to them in turn, one of his escorts carefully inscribed each name in a register.

‘Are you the son of Umar bin Abdallah?’

Zuhayr nodded.

‘I know your father well. Does he know you are here?’

‘No,’ lied Zuhayr, not wanting any harm to come to his family.

Don Inigo moved on till he sighted Ibn Amin.

‘You?’ His voice rose. ‘A Jew, the son of my physician, involved with this rubbish? What is it to do with you?’

‘I live in the city, Excellency. The Archbishop treats us all the same. Jews, Muslims, Christian heretics. For him there is no difference.’

‘I did not know there were any heretics present in Gharnata.’

‘There were some, but they left when the Archbishop arrived. It seems they knew him by reputation.’

‘I am not here to negotiate with you,’ began the Captain-General after he had checked that the names of every member of The Forty had been taken. ‘All of you are aware that I could crush this city in the palm of my hand. You have killed a royal bailiff. The man who executed a servant of the King cannot remain unpunished. There is nothing unusual about this procedure. It is the law. Your own Sultans and Emirs dispensed justice as we do now. By tomorrow morning I want this man delivered to my soldiers. From henceforth you must accept the laws laid down by our King and Queen. All of them. Those of you who embrace my faith can keep your houses and your lands, wear your clothes, speak your language, but those who continue to make converts to the sect of Mahomet will be punished.

‘I can further promise you that we will not let the Inquisition near this town for another five years, but in return your taxes to the Crown are doubled as from tomorrow. In addition you must pay for the upkeep of my soldiers billeted here. There is one more thing. I have made a list of two hundred leading families in your city. They must give me one son each as a hostage. You seem shocked. This is something we have learnt from the practice of your rulers. I will expect to see all of you in the palace tomorrow with an answer to my proposals.’

Having uttered these words, more deadly than any soldier’s blade, Don Inigo, the Count of Tendilla, took his leave and departed. For a few minutes nobody could speak. The promised oppression had already begun to weigh heavy.

‘Perhaps,’ said Ibn Wahab, in a voice weak with self-pity and fear, ‘I should give myself up. Then peace will return to our people.’

‘What he said could not have been more clear. If we retain our faith the only peace they will permit us will be the peace of the cemetery,’ said Zuhayr. ‘It is too late now for grand gestures and needless sacrifices.’

‘The choice we are being offered is simple,’ chimed in Ibn Basit. ‘To convert or to die.’

Then the qadi, who of all those present, with the exception of Ibn Wahab, had felt the blow most deeply, began to speak in an emotionless voice.

‘First they make sure they are in the saddle and then they begin to whip the horse. Allah has punished us most severely. He has been watching our antics on this peninsula for a long time. He knows what we have done in his name. How Believer killed Believer. How we destroyed each other’s kingdoms. How our rulers lived lives which were so remote from those they ruled that their own people could not be mobilized to defend them. They had to appeal for soldiers from Ifriqya, with disastrous results. You saw how the people here responded to our call for help. Were you not proud of their discipline and loyalty? It could have been the same in Qurtuba and Ishbiliya, in al-Mariya and Balansiya, in Sarakusta and the al-Gharb, but it was not to be so. You are all young men. Your lives are still ahead of you. You must do what you think is necessary. As for me, I feel it in my bones that my departure will not be long delayed. It will free me from this world. I will die as I was born. A Believer. Tomorrow morning I will go and inform Mendoza of my decision. I will also tell him that I will no longer serve as an intermediary between our people and the al-Hamra. They must do their filthy work themselves. You must decide for yourselves. I will leave you now. What the ear does not hear the tongue cannot repeat. Peace be upon you my sons.’

Zuhayr’s head was bent in anguish. Why did the earth not open and swallow him painlessly? Even better if he could clamber on to his horse and ride back to al-Hudayl. But as he saw the despondent faces which surrounded him he knew that, whether he liked it or not, his future was now tied to theirs. They had all become victims of a collective fate. He could not leave them now. Their hearts were chained to each other. It was vital that no more time was lost.

Ibn Basit was thinking on the same plane, and it was he who took the floor to bring the meeting to a conclusion. ‘My friends, it is time to go and make your farewells. Those of you who feel close to our leading families, go and warn them that the Captain-General is demanding hostages. If their older sons wish to go with us we will protect them as best we can. What time should we meet?’

‘Tomorrow at day-break.’ Zuhayr spoke with the voice of authority. ‘We shall ride away from here and join our friends in the al-Pujarras. They are already raising an army to join in the fight against the Christians. I shall meet you in the courtyard of the Funduq at the first call to prayer. Peace be upon you.’

Zuhayr walked away with a confident stride, but he had never felt so alone in his entire life. ‘What a sad and gloomy fate I have assigned to myself,’ he murmured as he approached the entrance to the Funduq. He would have given anything to find al-Zindiq, share a flask of wine, and confide his fears and doubts regarding the future, but the old man had already left the city. Al-Zindiq was on his way to al-Hudayl, where the very next morning he would present a detailed report on what had taken place in Gharnata to Zuhayr’s anxious family.

‘Zuhayr bin Umar, may Allah protect you.’

Zuhayr was startled. He could not see anyone. Then a figure moved out of the dark and stood directly in front of him. It was the old servant from his uncle’s house.

‘Peace be upon you, old friend. What brings you in this direction?’

‘The master would like you to share his meal tonight. I was told to bring you back with me.’

‘I will happily return with you,’ replied Zuhayr. ‘It would be a pleasure to see my uncle again.’

Ibn Hisham was pacing up and down the outer courtyard, impatiently awaiting the arrival of his nephew. The events of the day had made him sad and nervous, but deep inside himself he was proud of the role played by Umar’s son. When Zuhayr entered his uncle held him close and kissed him on both cheeks.

‘I am angry with you, Zuhayr. You passed through this house on your way to some other destination. Since when has my brother’s son stayed at a lodging house in this city? This is your home! Answer, boy, before I have you whipped.’

Despite himself, Zuhayr was moved. He smiled. It was an odd feeling. He felt guilty, as if he was ten years old again and had been surprised in the middle of an escapade by an adult.

‘I did not wish to embarrass you, Uncle. Why should you suffer for my actions? It was best that I stayed at the Funduq.’

‘What nonsense you talk. Does the fact of my conversion mean that I no longer have any blood relations? You need a bath. I will order some fresh clothes for you.’

‘And how is my aunt? My cousins?’ enquired Zuhayr as they walked towards the hammam.

‘They are in Ishbiliya staying in the same house as Kulthum. They will return in a few weeks. Your aunt is getting old and the mountain wind gives her rheumatism. It is much warmer in Ishbiliya.’

After being scrubbed with soap and washed by two young servants, Zuhayr relaxed in the warm bath. He could have been at home. Despite what Hisham had said, there was no doubt but that he was endangering his uncle’s future. True, they had not been seen entering the house, but the servants would talk. They would boast to their friends that Zuhayr had dined with his converso uncle. By tomorrow it would reach the market in the shape of highly embellished gossip. Any one of the Archbishop’s spies was bound to pick it up.

After their meal, which had been as simple and austere as usual, the conversation turned inevitably to a discussion of the plight in which their faith now found itself.

‘Our own fault, my son. Our own fault,’ declared Ibn Hisham without the shadow of a doubt. ‘We always look for answers in the actions of our enemies, but the fault is within ourselves. Success came too soon. Our Prophet died too soon, before he could consolidate the new order. His successors killed each other like the warring tribesmen that they were. Instead of assimilating the stable characteristics of civilizations which we conquered, we decided instead on imparting to them our own mercurial style. And so it was in al-Andalus. Fine but thoughtless gestures, inconsequential sacrifice of Muslim lives, empty chivalry…’

‘Pardon the interruption, Uncle, but every word you have spoken could equally be applied to the Christians. Your explanation is insufficient.’

And so the talk went on that night. Hisham could not satisfy his nephew and Zuhayr could not convince his uncle that it was time to take up arms again. It was obvious to Zuhayr that his uncle’s conversion was only a surface phenomenon. He spoke and behaved like a Muslim nobleman. Pork did not defile his table. The kitchen and the house were staffed by believers, and if the old servant was telling the truth then Hisham himself turned eastwards every day in secret prayers.

‘Do not waste your youth in mindless endeavours, Zuhayr. History has passed us by. Why can you not accept it?’

‘I will not lie back and passively accept the outrages they wish to impose on us. They are barbarians and barbarians have to be resisted. Better to die than become slaves of their Church.’

‘I have learnt something new in these last few months,’ Ibn Hisham confided. ‘In this new world which we inhabit there is also a new way of dying. In the old days we killed each other. The enemy killed us and it was over. But I have learnt that total indifference can be just as cruel a death as succumbing to a knight in armour.’

‘But you who always had so many friends…’

‘They have all gone their separate ways. If we went by appearances alone it would seem that individuals can effortlessly survive cataclysms of the sort that we are experiencing, but life is always more complex. Everything changes inside ourselves. I converted for selfish reasons, but it has made me even more estranged. I work amongst them, but, however hard I try, I can never be of them.’

‘And I thought that in our entire family, only I understood what loneliness really meant.’

‘One must not complain. I have the most patient friends in the world. I talk most often these days to them. The stones in the courtyard.’

The two men rose and Zuhayr embraced his uncle in farewell.

‘I’m glad I came to see you, Uncle. I will never forget this meeting.’

‘I fear it may have been our last supper.’

Zuhayr lay in his bed and reviewed the events of the day. How brutally the Count had deflated their hopes. The Archbishop had won. Cunning, tenacious Cisneros. The city now belonged to him and he would destroy it from within. Kill the spirit of the Gharnatinos. Make them feel ugly and mediocre. That would be the end of Gharnata. Far better to raze it to the ground, leaving only that which existed at the beginning: a lovely plain, furrowed by streams and clothed in trees. It was the beauty which had attracted his ancestors. And it was here that they had built this city.

His thoughts wandered to the evening spent with his uncle. Zuhayr had been surprised by Hisham’s bitterness and abjection, but it had also comforted him a great deal. If his uncle Hisham, a man of great wealth and intelligence, could find no satisfaction in becoming a Christian, then he, Zuhayr, was justified in the course he had chosen. What use was the opulence and splendour if inside yourself you were permanently poverty-stricken and miserable?

That night Zuhayr was disturbed by a dream. He woke up in a sweat, trembling. He had seen the house in al-Hudayl swathed by a tent of white muslin. Yazid, the only one he could recognize, was laughing, but not as Zuhayr remembered him. It was the laugh of an old man. He was surrounded by giant chess pieces which had come to life and were talking in a strange language. Slowly, they moved towards Yazid and began to throttle him. The eerie laughter turned into a rattle.

Zuhayr lay there shivering. Sleep would not return. He stayed in the bed, wide awake, huddled in his quilt, desperately awaiting the first noises which come with the dawn.

‘There is only one Allah and it is Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet!’

The same words. The same rhythm. Eight different voices. Eight echoes competing with each other. Eight mosques for the faithful today. And tomorrow? Zuhayr was already dressed. In the giant courtyard below he could already hear the sound of hoofs. His steed was saddled and a stable-boy, not much older than Yazid, was feeding it a lump of raw brown sugar. More hoofs entered the yard. He heard the voices of Ibn Basit and Ibn Amin.

They rode out of the Funduq, through the tiny streets, in the livid light of dawn, just as Gharnata was beginning to come to life. Doors were opening as groups of men made haste to their mosques. As they passed some open doors, Zuhayr could see people busy at their ablutions, trying to wash away the cumulative stench of sleep.

The city was no longer deserted, as it had been when Zuhayr had walked to the Funduq from his uncle’s establishment late last night but it was immersed in despair. Ibn Basit could not recall a time when so many people had hurried to attend morning prayers.

Before the Reconquest it was the Friday afternoon prayers which had attracted the largest crowd — a social and political as well as a religious occasion. More often than not, the Imam would discuss political and military matters, leaving religion for those weeks when nothing else was happening. The mood was usually relaxed, in sharp contrast to the subdued silences of the people today.

‘Zuhayr al-Fahl,’ said Ibn Amin in an excited voice. ‘Ibn Basit and I have two gifts to deliver at the al-Hamra. Would you care to ride there with us? The others are waiting outside the city. The Forty have become the Three Hundred!’

‘What gifts?’ asked Zuhayr, who had noticed the exquisite wooden boxes sealed with silken ribbons. ‘The stench of perfume is overpowering.’

‘One box is for Ximenes,’ replied Ibn Basit, trying very hard to keep a serious face, ‘and the other is for the Count. It is a farewell present which these grandees will never forget.’

Zuhayr regarded the gesture as unnecessary. It was taking chivalry to an absurd degree, but he agreed to accompany them. Within a few minutes they were at the gates of the palace.

‘Stop where you are!’ Two young soldiers drew their swords and rushed towards them. ‘What is your business?’

‘My name is Ibn Amin. Yesterday the Captain-General visited us in the city and invited us to have breakfast with him this morning. He made some requests and wanted our reply by this morning. We have brought a gift for him and for His Grace the Archbishop of Toledo. Unfortunately we cannot stay. Will you please convey our apologies and make sure that these gifts, a small token of our esteem, are delivered to the two gentlemen, the minute they have arisen.’

The soldiers relaxed and accepted the gifts in good humour. The young men turned their horses and galloped away to join their fellow fighters, where they had gathered just outside the city. Soldiers at the gate watched with grim faces as they passed through.

Three hundred armed men on horseback, most of them not yet twenty, cannot be expected to remain silent on the edge of change. There were screams, whisperings and excited laughter. The mountain air was chilly and both men and horses were swathed in steam. Anxious mothers, huddled in their shawls, were saying their farewells beneath the walls. Zuhayr frowned at the din, but his mood changed as he neared his troops. They were a magnificent sight, a sign that the Moors of Gharnata had not abandoned hope. As the three friends rode up to the assembled company, they were greeted by excited cries and a warm welcome. All were aware of the dangers that faced them, but despite that knowledge, spirits were high.

‘Did you deliver the presents?’ asked Ibn Wahab as they were leaving the city behind.

Ibn Amin nodded and laughed.

‘In the name of Allah,’ asked Zuhayr, ‘what is the joke?’

‘You really want to know?’ teased Ibn Basit. ‘Ibn Amin, you tell him.’

The son of the Count’s personal physician laughed so much at this suggestion that Zuhayr thought he would choke.

‘The stench of perfume! Your nose detected our crime,’ began Ibn Amin after he had calmed down. ‘In both those boxes, disguised by the attar of roses, is a rare delicacy for the consumption of the Archbishop and the Count. It has edible silver paper transferred on to its surface. What we have left them, Zuhayr al-Fahl, is a piece of our excrement. One, freshly delivered this morning from the bowels of this Jew you see before you, and the other, a somewhat staler offering, from the insides of a devout Moor, known to you as Ibn Basit. This fact, without mentioning our actual names, of course is made clear in a note addressed to both of them, in which we also express the hope that they will enjoy their breakfast.’

It was too childish for words. Zuhayr tried his best not to laugh, but found it increasingly difficult to contain himself. He began to guffaw uncontrollably. It did not take long for word of the prank to spread to the entire group. Within a few minutes the gallant three hundred were engulfed by a wave of laughter.

‘And to think as I did,’ said Zuhayr, as he tried to calm himself down, ‘that you were being far too sentimental and chivalrous.’ This made his friends laugh again.

They rode on for a few hours. The sun had risen. There was no wind at all. Capes and blankets were discarded and handed to the hundred or so servants who were attending their masters. It was after they had been riding for over two hours that they observed a small group of horsemen riding towards them.

‘Allahu Akbar! God is Great!’ shouted Zuhayr, and the chant was repeated by the young men of Gharnata.

There was no reply from the horsemen. Zuhayr ordered his troop to halt, fearing an ambush. It was when the horsemen drew close that Zuhayr recognized them. His spirits rose considerably.

‘Abu Zaid al-Ma’ari!’ he shouted with pleasure. ‘Peace be upon you! You see I followed your advice after all and brought some other friends along.’

‘I am happy to see you, Zuhayr bin Umar. I knew you were headed this way. You had better follow us and get away from this particular track. It is too well known, and by this time there will already be soldiers on your tail, trying to determine where you will camp for the night.’

Zuhayr told him about the gifts they had left behind for the Count and the Archbishop. To his surprise Abu Zaid did not laugh.

‘You have done something very stupid, my friends. The kitchen in the al-Hamra is probably enjoying your joke, but they are the least powerful people in the palace. You have united the Count and the Confessor. A gift to the priest would have been sufficient. It might even have amused the Count and delayed the offensive. Did you really think that you were the first to have thought of such an insult? Others like you, all over al-Andalus, have executed similar pieces of folly. It is getting late. Let us get out of this district as soon as possible.’

Zuhayr smiled to himself. He was a courageous young man, but not completely bereft of intelligence. He knew that his capacities did not extend to leading an irregular mountain army. Abu Zaid’s presence had relieved his burden considerably.

As they rode the day was in full progress and the sun, unfiltered by even a single cloud, was warming the earth, whose scented dust they inhaled as they climbed the mountain. Ahead of them there lay an irredeemable landscape.

Later that afternoon, al-Zindiq delivered Zuhayr’s letter to Umar and described the events of the last two days. He was heard in silence. Even Yazid did not ask questions. When the old man had finished, Ama was weeping loudly.

‘It is the end,’ she wailed. ‘Everything is over.’

‘But Ama,’ replied Yazid, ‘Zuhayr is alive and well. They have begun a jihad. That should make you happy, not sad. Why do you cry like this?’

‘Please do not ask me, Ibn Umar. Do not torment an old woman.’

Zubayda signalled to Yazid that he should follow her and Umar out of the room. When Ama saw that she was left alone with al-Zindiq she wiped her tears and began to question him about the details of Zuhayr’s appearance that morning.

‘Was he wearing a rich blue turban with a crescent made of gold?’

Al-Zindiq nodded.

‘That is how I saw him in my dream last night.’

Al-Zindiq’s tone was very soft. ‘Dreams tell us more about ourselves, Amira.’

‘You do not understand me, you old fool,’ Ama retorted angrily. ‘In my dream Zuhayr’s head wore that turban, but the head was lying on the ground, covered in blood. There was no body.’

Al-Zindiq thought she was about to cry again, but instead her face turned grey and her breathing grew loud and irregular. He gave her some water and helped her back to her room, a tiny chamber where she had spent most of her nights for over half a century. She lay down and al-Zindiq covered her with a blanket. He thought of their past, of words left half-spoken, self-deceptions, the pain he had caused her by falling in love with Zahra. He felt that he had been the ruin of Ama’s life.

Instinctively, the old woman read his thoughts.

‘I don’t regret for a single moment the life that I have lived here.’

He smiled sadly. ‘Somewhere else you could have been your own mistress, beholden to no one but yourself.’

She stared up at him with a plea in her eyes.

‘I have wasted my life, Amira,’ he said. ‘This house has cursed me forever. I wish I had never set foot in its courtyard. That is the truth.’

Suddenly she saw him at eighteen, with thick black hair and his eyes full of laughter. The memory was enough.

‘Go now,’ she told him, ‘and let me die in peace.’

For al-Zindiq the very thought of dying quietly, passing on without a last scream of outrage, was unthinkable and he told her so.

‘It is the only way I know,’ she replied as she clutched her beads. ‘Trust in Allah.’

Ama did not die that day or the next. She lingered for a week, making her farewells at her own pace. She kissed Umar’s hand and dried Yazid’s tears, told Zubayda of her fears for the family and pleaded with her to take the children away. She remained calm except when she asked Umar to remember her to Zuhayr.

‘Who will make him his heavenly mixtures when I am gone?’ she wept.

Ama died in her sleep three days after Zuhayr’s flight from Gharnata. She was buried near Zahra in the family graveyard. Yazid grieved for her in secret. He felt that as he was approaching manhood he should be brave, and not display his emotions in public.