Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

Chapter 12

EVERY MORNING AFTER BREAKFAST, Yazid would take his books and retire to the tower.

‘Stay here and read with me,’ Zubayda would plead, but he would give her a sad little smile.

‘I like reading on my own. It is so peaceful in the tower.’

She never insisted, and so what had started as an assertion of the independence associated with approaching manhood had become a regular routine. It had begun two months ago when they had first heard the news of the events in Gharnata and the flight of three hundred young men with Zuhayr at their head.

Yazid had felt so proud of his brother. His friends in the village had been full of envy and he could not fully understand the sadness which had descended on the house. Even Ama, who had died so peacefully in her sleep, had expressed her misgivings.

‘Nothing good will come out of this adventure, Ibn Umar,’ she had said to Yazid, who could not have known then that these were virtually the old woman’s last words.

It was her caution which had made Yazid rethink the whole affair. It was Ama who, in the past, had defended every daring deed, however foolhardy, carried out by any male member of the family. She had filled his head with seamless stories of chivalry and courage which naturally featured his great-grandfather, Ibn Farid, in a prominent role. If Ama was worried about Zuhayr, then the prospect must be really grim.

From his tower, Yazid saw a horseman riding towards the house. Every day when he went up there he would hope and hope and pray that he would see such a sight and that it would be his brother. The rider was at the gates of the house. His heart sank. It wasn’t Zuhayr. It was never Zuhayr.

Yazid had never known the house so empty. It was not just Zuhayr’s absence or Ama’s death. These were heavy losses, but Zuhayr would return one day and, as for Ama, he would see her, as she had promised him so often, in Paradise. They would meet in the seventh heaven, by the banks of the stream which flowed with the tastiest milk imaginable. He missed Ama more than he would admit, but at least her place had been taken by al-Zindiq, who knew much more about the movement of the stars and the moon. Once when he had told al-Zindiq about his projected reunion with Ama, the old man had chuckled and said something really strange.

‘So, Amira thought she would go straight to the seventh heaven, did she? I am not so sure, Yazid bin Umar. She was not without sins you know. I think she might have problems getting past the first heaven and, who knows, they might even decide to send her in the other direction.’

No, it was Hind’s marriage and departure which, while not a surprise, had nonetheless come as a devastating blow. He was closer to Hind than to anyone else in his whole family. But she had gone. True, she had begged her parents to let Yazid go across the water with her for a short time, swearing to bring him back herself after a few months, but Zubayda would not be parted from her son.

‘He is all we now have left in this house. I will not let my most precious jewel be stolen from me. Not even by you, Hind!’

And so Hind had left without her brother. It was this, much more than the leaving of her ancestral home, that had made her weep like a child on the day of departure, and again a day later when she and Ibn Daud had boarded the vessel in Malaka for the port of Tanja.

Someone was running up the steps to the tower. Yazid abandoned his thoughts and began his descent to the house. Halfway down he encountered his mother’s maid-servant, Umayma, her face flushed with excitement.

‘Yazid bin Umar! There is a messenger here from your brother. He is with the Lady Zubayda and your father, but he will not speak until you are present.’

Yazid brushed past her and flew down the stairwell. When he reached the ground he ran through the outer courtyard like a whirlwind as Umayma, cursing under her breath, discovered that she could not keep up with him. She was no longer the slim gazelle who could outpace even al-Fahl. She had become round-wombed over the last few months.

Yazid appeared breathless in the reception room.

‘This is Yazid,’ said Umar, his face wreathed in smiles.

‘Your brother sends you hundreds of kisses,’ said Ibn Basit.

‘Where is he? Is he well? When will I see him?’

‘You will see him before long. He will come one evening, when it is already dark, and leave the next morning before it is light. There is a reward for his head.’

Umar’s face became transformed with anger.

‘What? Why?’

‘Have you not heard?’

‘Heard what, boy?’

‘The events of last week. Surely you have heard? It is the talk of Gharnata. Zuhayr thought that his uncle Hisham would have sent a messenger.’

Umar was getting more and more impatient. He was twirling the edge of his beard and Zubayda, who knew this was a signal that an explosion was on the way, tried to pre-empt his wrath.

‘We do not know any of this, Ibn Basit. So please enlighten us quickly. As you can see we are starved for news of Zuhayr.’

‘It all happened some nine days ago. Abu Zaid al-Ma’ari was leading us to a hideout in the mountains when we sighted the Christians. They had seen us too and a clash was unavoidable. There were just over three hundred of us, but from the dust raised by their horses we knew they were double our size if not more.

‘An unarmed messenger rode over to us from them. “Our leader,” he began, “the noble Don Alonso de Aguilar, sends you his compliments. If you surrender you will be treated well, but if you resist then he will return to Gharnata bringing only your horses.” We were trapped. For once even Abu Zaid had no clever scheme to see us through. It was then that Zuhayr ibn Umar rode out in front of us. He spoke in a voice that could be heard for miles. “Tell your master that we are not a people without a history,” he roared. “We are Moorish knights defending what once belonged to us. Tell him that I, Zuhayr ibn Umar, great-grandson of the knight Ibn Farid, will fight Don Alonso in a duel to the death. Whosoever wins today will determine the fate of the others.”’

‘Who is Don Alonso?’ interrupted Yazid, his face tense with fear.

‘The most experienced and accomplished of the knights in the service of Don Inigo,’ replied Ibn Basit. ‘Feared by his enemies and by his friends. A man with a terrible temper and a scar across his forehead, imprinted by a Moorish defender at al-Hama. They say that he alone killed a hundred men in that ill-fated city. May Allah curse him!’

‘Please go on,’ begged Zubayda, trying to keep her voice calm.

‘To our great surprise, Don Alonso accepted the challenge. The Christian soldiers began to gather on one side of the meadow. Two hundred of us went and occupied the other side.’

‘Where were the others?’ asked Yazid, unable to suppress his emotions.

‘You see, Abu Zaid had decided that whether we won or lost an element of surprise was necessary. He took a hundred men and placed them at different points of the mountain, overlooking the meadow. The plan was that immediately the combat was over we would charge down on the Christians before they had time to prepare for battle.’

‘But that is against the rules,’ Umar protested.

‘True, but we were not playing a game of chess. Now, if I may continue. Zuhayr carried an old, beautifully embroidered standard which had been given him by an old lady in Gharnata who swore that Ibn Farid had carried it in many battles. On his green turban there was a shining silver crescent. He planted the standard in front of his men. At a distance we saw a golden cross put into the earth by Don Alonso. At the agreed signal, Don Alonso charged, his lance glinting in the sun and pointing straight at Zuhayr’s heart. Both of them had disdained the use of shields.

‘Zuhayr unsheathed his sword and rode like a madman. His face was distorted with an anger I had never seen before. As he neared Don Alonso the entire company heard his voice. “There is only one God and Mohammed is his Prophet.” They were close to each other now. Zuhayr avoided the lance by almost slipping off his steed. What a display of horsemanship that was. Then we saw Ibn Farid’s sword flash like lightning. For a minute it seemed as if both had survived. It was only when Don Alonso’s horse came closer that we saw that its rider had lost his head. They don’t make swords like that in Tulaytula any more!

‘An almighty cheer went up on our side. The Christians were demoralized and preparing to retreat when Abu Zaid charged down towards them. They suffered heavy losses before they managed to escape. We took fifty prisoners, but, on Zuhayr’s insistence, they were given Don Alonso’s body and his head to take back with them to Gharnata. “Tell the Count,” Zuhayr told them, “that this war was not of our doing. He has lost a brave knight because the Captain-General is nothing more than a mercenary in the service of a cruel and cowardly priest!”’

Yazid had been entranced by the tale. He was so filled with pride on behalf of his brother that he did not notice the concern on the faces of both his parents. It was al-Zindiq, equally worried by the consequences of Zuhayr’s victory, who questioned Ibn Basit further.

‘Did Abu Zaid say anything about the reaction of the al-Hamra?’

‘Why yes,’ said Ibn Basit, looking at the old man in surprise. ‘He said a great deal two days later.’

‘What was it?’ asked Zubayda.

‘The Count was so enraged that he has offered a thousand pieces of gold for the head of Zuhayr bin Umar. He is also preparing a force to crush us forever, but Abu Zaid is not worried. He has a plan. He says that where he is taking us not even the Almighty would be able to find Zuhayr.’

‘There speaks the voice of Satan,’ said Umar.

‘Go and bathe, Ibn Basit,’ said Zubayda, looking at the dust on the young man’s face and the state of his clothes. ‘I think Zuhayr’s clothes will fit you. Then join us for the midday meal. Your room is prepared and you can stay as long as you wish.’

‘Thank you, Lady, I will gladly bathe and eat at your table. Alas, I cannot permit myself the luxury of a rest. I have messages to deliver in Guejar, and by sunset I must be in Lanjaron, where my father awaits me. Why do you all look so uneasy? Zuhayr is alive and well. For myself I am convinced that we can recapture Gharnata within six months.’

‘What?’ shouted Umar.

Al-Zindiq did not permit the discussion to continue any further. ‘The tongue of the wise, my dear Ibn Basit,’ he muttered, ‘is in his heart. The heart of the fool is in his mouth. The attendants are awaiting your pleasure in the hammam, young man.’

Yazid escorted their guest to the hammam. ‘Enjoy your bath, Ibn Basit,’ he said as he pointed Zuhayr’s friend towards the baths and hurried to the kitchen where the Dwarf, Umayma and all the other house servants were gathered. For their benefit he repeated, word by word, the story of Zuhayr’s duel and the decapitation of Don Alonso.

‘Allah be thanked,’ said Umayma. ‘Our young master is alive.’

Looks were exchanged, but nothing was said in Yazid’s presence. The excitement on the face of the story-teller had captivated even the most cynical members of the kitchen staff. The Dwarf alone appeared unmoved. It was only after Yazid’s departure that the cook gave expression to his feelings.

‘The Banu Hudayl are courting death and the end will not be long delayed. Ximenes will not let them live in peace.’

‘But surely our village will be safe?’ interjected Umayma. ‘We have not harmed anyone here.’

The Dwarf shrugged his shoulders.

‘That I do not know,’ he said, ‘but if I were you, Umayma, I would go and serve the Lady Kulthum in Ishbiliya. It is best that your child is not born in al-Hudayl.’

The young woman’s face changed colour.

‘The whole village knows you are carrying Zuhayr’s foal.’

A crude cacophony of laughter greeted the remark. It was all too much for Umayma. She ran out of the kitchen in tears. Yet she could not help thinking that the Dwarf might be right after all. She would ask Lady Zubayda tonight for permission to wait on Kulthum in Ishbiliya.

Yazid was lost in his own world. He was in the pomegranate glade, pretending to be a Moorish knight. His sword was a stick, whose end he had sharpened with his knife — the knife Zuhayr had given him on his tenth birthday and which he proudly wore in his belt whenever there were visitors. He was galloping up and down in a frenzied fashion, waving his make-believe sword and decapitating every pomegranate within reach. Soon he had tired of the fantasy and sitting down on the grass, he split open one of the vanquished fruits and began to drink its juice, spitting out the chewed seeds after every mouthful.

‘You know something, Hind? I think Zuhayr will die. Abu and Ummi think the same. I could tell from the way they looked when Ibn Basit was telling them about the duel. I wish Ummi had let me go with you. I’ve never been on a boat. Never crossed the sea. Never seen Fes. They say it’s just like Gharnata.’

Yazid stopped suddenly. He thought he had heard footsteps and the rustling of the gorse which surrounded the glade. Ever since he had been surprised by Umayma and the other servants that day he had become much more cautious and always on the look-out for intruders. He wished he had never seen Ibn Daud and Hind kissing each other. If he had not told his mother, she would not have spoken to Hind and, who knows, perhaps the wedding might have been delayed. Hind might still have been here. What a strange wedding it had been. No feasts. No celebrations. No display of fireworks. Just the qadi from the village and the family. He giggled at the memory of how he had almost dropped the al-koran on Ibn Daud’s head, bringing a smile even to the face of the qadi. The Dwarf had excelled himself that day. The sweetmeats, in particular, tasted as if they had been cooked in paradise.

Three days later Hind had gone. It had been a time of sadness, but Hind had spent more time with him than with Ibn Daud. They had gone for long walks. Hind had shown him her favourite haunts in the mountain and by the river and she had, as always, talked to him seriously.

‘I wish you could come with me for a while. I really do,’ she had told him the day before she left. ‘I’m not leaving you, just this house. I could not bear the thought of living here with Ibn Daud. We must live where he feels comfortable and in control of the surroundings. This is Abu’s house, and after him it will belong to Zuhayr and you and your children. You do understand me, don’t you Yazid? I love you more than before and I will always think of you. Perhaps next year when we come to visit we can take you away for a month or two.’

Yazid had not been able to say very much in response. He had simply clutched her hand tight as they walked back to the house. Yazid did not wish to think about it any more, and was quite relieved at the interruption.

‘Ah! It is the young master himself. And pray what are you doing here on your own?’

The familiar, hateful voice belonged to his father’s chief steward Ubaydallah, who, like his father before him, kept a record of every single transaction enacted on the estate. He had a much better idea of the exact amount of land which Umar owned, or how much rent had accrued in which village, or the exact amount of money from the sale of dried fruits last year, or how much wheat and rice was stored in underground granaries and their specific locations.

Yazid did not like Ubaydallah. The man’s blatant insincerity and his exaggerated show of unfelt affection had never deceived the boy.

‘I was taking a walk,’ replied Yazid in a cold voice as he rose and assumed the most adult posture he could manage. ‘And now I am returning to the house for my midday meal. And you, Ubaydallah? What brings you to the house at this time?’

‘I think the answer to that question had better be given directly to the master. May I walk back with you?’

‘You may,’ replied Yazid as he put both his hands behind his back and strode back towards the house. He had heard Ama say a hundred thousand times that Ubaydallah was a rogue and a thief, that he had stolen land, food and money from the estate for decades and that his son had opened three shops on the proceeds — two in Qurtuba and one in Gharnata. He had decided not to speak to the man for the rest of the journey, but he changed his mind.

‘Tell me something, Ubaydallah.’ Yazid spoke in the unique and infinitely superior tone of a landowner. ‘How are your son’s shops doing? I am told that one can buy any and every luxury in them.’

The question took the old steward by surprise. The insolent young pup, he thought to himself. He must have picked something up from the cartloads of kitchen gossip. Umar bin Abdallah would never stoop to discuss such matters at his table. Aloud he was unctuous to the point of absurdity.

‘How nice of you to think of my boy, young master. He is doing well, thanks be to Allah and, of course, to your family. It was your father who paid for his education and insisted that he find work in the city. It is a debt which can never be repaid. I am told that you are a ferocious reader of books, young master. Everyone in the village talks about it. I told them: “You just wait. Yazid bin Umar will soon begin to write books of learning.”’

Without looking at the man, Yazid smiled in acknowledgement of the remark. The flattery made no impact on him at all. This was not just because Yazid did not trust Ubaydallah. In this respect the boy was very much like his father and mother. Words of praise slipped off him like water off leaves in the fountain. It was a sense of inherited pride. A feeling that the Banu Hudayl was so naturally advantaged that they did not need anybody else’s favours. For Yazid, like his father and grandfather before him, an offering of wheat-cakes sweetened with the syrup of dates from a poor peasant meant much more than the silk shawls showered on the ladies of the house by Ubaydallah and his son. It was what the gift meant to the giver that determined their attitude.

Ubaydallah was babbling on, but the boy had stopped listening. He did not believe any of this nonsense, but the very fact that he had forced Ubaydallah to speak to him as he would have addressed Zuhayr was, he felt, something of a triumph. As they walked through the main gate, known in the village after its builder as Bab al-Farid, Ubaydallah lowered his head in a half-bow. Yazid acknowledged the gesture with an imperceptible nod of his head as they went their separate ways. The elderly man hurried to the kitchen. The boy maintained his posture and did not relax till he had entered the house.

‘Where have you been?’ whispered Umayma outside the dining-room. ‘Everyone else has finished.’

Yazid ignored her and rushed into the room. The first thing he noticed was Ibn Basit’s absence. This depressed him. His face fell. A distant look appeared on his face as he fingered the medallion Hind had left him as a token of her love. Inside it, black like the night, was a lock of her hair.

‘Has he gone, Abu?’

His father nodded as he picked at a dark red grape from the silver tray bedecked with fruit. Zubayda served Yazid some cucumbers cooked in their own water with a dash of clarified butter, black pepper and red chilli seeds. He ate it quickly and then consumed a salad consisting of radishes, onions and tomatoes, soaked in yoghurt and the juice of fresh limes.

‘Did Ibn Basit say anything else? Did he give you any idea when Zuhayr would visit us?’

Zubayda shook her head.

‘He did not know the exact day, but he thought it would be soon. Now will you please have some fruit, Yazid. It will bring the colour back to your cheeks.’

As four servants entered to clear the table, the most senior amongst them knelt on the floor and muttered a few words close to his master’s ear. A look of disdain appeared on Umar’s face. ‘What does he want at this time? Show him to my study and stay there with him till I arrive.’

‘Ubaydallah?’ asked Zubayda.

Umar nodded as his face clouded. Yazid grinned and described his encounter with the steward.

‘Is it true, Abu, that he now owns almost as much land as you?’

The question made Umar laugh.

‘I don’t think so, but I’m the wrong person to ask. I’d better go and see what the rogue wants. It isn’t like him to disturb me just as we are about to rest.’

After Umar had left them, Zubayda and Yazid walked up and down the inner courtyard holding hands and enjoying the winter sun. She saw the look in Yazid’s eyes when they passed the pomegranate tree, under which Ama had spent many a winter day.

‘Do you miss her a lot, my child?’

In reply he tightened his grip on her hand. She bent down and kissed his cheeks and then his eyes.

‘Everyone must die one day, Yazid. One day you will see her again.’

‘Please, Ummi. Please not that. Hind never believed in all that stuff about life in heaven. Nor does al-Zindiq and nor do I.’

Zubayda suppressed a smile. She did not either, but Umar had forbidden her the right to transmit any of her blasphemous thoughts to the children. Well, she thought, Umar has Zuhayr and Kulthum to believe with him, and I have Hind and my Yazid.

‘Ummi,’ he was pleading, ‘why don’t we all go and live in Fes? I don’t mean in the same house as Hind and Ibn Daud, but in our own house.’

‘I would not exchange this house, the streams and rivers which water your lands, the village and those who live in it, for any city in the world. Not Qurtuba, not Gharnata and not even Fes, even though I miss Hind as much as you. She was my friend, too, Yazid. But no. Not for anything would I change all this… Peace be upon you, al-Zindiq!’

‘And you, my lady. And you, Yazid bin Umar.’

Yazid began to walk away.

‘Where are you…?’ began Zubayda.

‘To the tower. I will rest there and read my books.’

Al-Zindiq looked with affection at the boy’s disappearing back. ‘This child has an intellect which puts many old people to shame, but something has changed, my lady, has it not? What is it? Yazid bin Umar looks as if he is in permanent mourning. Is it Amira?’

Zubayda agreed with him. ‘I have a feeling that this child knows everything. As you so rightly said, he knows more than many who are older and wiser. As to his ailment, I think I know the cause. No, it is not his Ama’s death, though that upset him more than he revealed. It is Hind. Ever since she left the shine has gone from the pupils of his eyes. My heart weeps when I see them so sad and dim.’

‘Children are far more resilient than we are, my lady.’

‘Not this one,’ continued Zubayda. ‘He is having great difficulty in managing his pain. He thinks it is unmanly to show emotions. Hind was his only confidante. Fears, joys, secrets. He told her everything.’

Umar’s return deprived her of the old man’s advice.

‘Peace be upon you al-Zindiq.’ As the old man smiled, Umar spoke to his wife in a light-hearted vein. ‘You will never guess why Ubaydallah came to see me.’

‘It wasn’t money?’

‘Would I be right in thinking,’ suggested al-Zindiq, ‘that our venerable chief steward is being troubled by his conscience on matters of the spirit?’

‘Well spoken, old man. Well spoken. Yes, that is exactly his problem. He has decided to convert, and wanted my permission and my blessings. “Ubaydallah,” I warned him. “Do you realize that you will have to confess all your misdemeanours to a monk before they admit you to their Church? All of them, Ubaydallah! And if they find out that you’ve been lying, they’ll burn you at the stake for being a false Christian.” I could see that this worried him. He made a quick mental calculation as to how many of his petty crimes the Church could uncover and decided that he was safe. Next week he visits Gharnata, and he and that imbecilic son of his will go through that pagan ritual and become Christians. Blood of their blood. Flesh of their flesh. Seeking salvation by praying to the image of a bleeding man on two pieces of wood. Tell me something, al-Zindiq. Why is their faith so deeply marked by human sacrifice?’

A full-scale discussion on the philosophy of the Christian religion was about to begin, but before the old man could reply a scream rent the air. Yazid, out of breath and his face red from the exertion, had come running into the courtyard.

‘Soldiers! Hundreds of them. Like a ring round the village and our house. Come and look.’

Umar and Zubayda followed the boy back to the tower. Al-Zindiq, too old now to climb the stairs, sat down with a sigh on the bench underneath the pomegranate tree.

‘Our future was our past,’ he muttered in his beard.

Yazid had not been deceived. They were surrounded. Trapped like a hunted deer. As Umar strained his eyes, he could make out the Christian standards as well as the soldiers who carried them. A man on horseback was riding excitedly from one group of soldiers to another, obviously giving out instructions. He seemed very young, but he must be the captain.

‘I must go to the village immediately,’ said Umar. ‘We will ride out to meet these men and ask them what they want of us.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Yazid.

‘You must stay at home, my son. There is no one else to guard your mother.’

As Umar came down from the tower he found all the male servants of the house gathered in the outer courtyard, armed with swords and lances. There were only sixty of them, and they were of varying ages which stretched from fifteen to sixty-five, but as they stood there waiting for him he felt a surge of emotion sweep through his body. They were his servants and he was their master, but at times of crisis their loyalty to him transcended everything else.

His horse had been saddled and four of the younger men rode out to the village with him. As they rode through the main gate, an eagle flew over the house in search of prey. The servants exchanged looks. It was a bad omen.

At a distance they could hear a chorus of dogs barking. They, too, felt that something was wrong. For a start nobody was at work. The men and women who toiled in the fields every day from dawn till sunset had run away on seeing the soldiers. The tiny streets of the village were filled with people, but the shops were shut. The last time Umar had witnessed such a scene was the day his father had died after being thrown by a horse. That day, too, all activity had ceased. They had followed the body in silence as it was carried to the house.

Greetings were being exchanged, but the faces were drawn and tense. It was the fear which is born out of uncertainty. Juan the carpenter was running towards them.

‘It is a cursed day, Master,’ he said in a voice breaking with anger. ‘A cursed day. The Prince of Darkness has sent his devils to harass and destroy us.’

Umar jumped off his horse and embraced Juan.

‘Why do you speak in this fashion, my friend?’

‘I have just returned from their camp. They knew I was a Christian and sent for me. They asked me all sorts of questions. Did I know Zuhayr al-Fahl? Did I know how many men from the village were fighting by his side in the al-Pujarras? Did I know that they had killed the noble Don Alonso when his back was turned to them? To the last question I replied that the version I had heard was a different one. Upon which their young captain, whose eyes burn with an evil flame, came and slapped my face. “Are you a Christian?” I replied that my family had never converted and that we had lived in al-Hudayl from the day it was built, but that nobody had ever suggested to us that we should embrace the faith of the Prophet Mohammed. We had lived in peace. Then he said to me: “Would you rather stay with them or come and live with us? We even have a chapel set up in that tent, and there is a priest to hear your confession.” I said that I would happily confess to the monk, but that I wished to stay in the house where I had been born and my father and grandfather before me. At this he laughed. It was a strange laugh and straight away it was imitated by the two young men at his side. “Do not bother with your confession. Get you back to your infidels.”’

‘If they wish to question anyone about Zuhayr they must deal with me,’ said Umar. ‘I will go and see them.’

‘No!’ barked another voice. ‘That you must not do under any circumstances. I was on my way to the house to talk to you.’

It was Ibn Hasd, the cobbler, who as Miguel’s natural brother was Umar’s uncle, but this was the first time he had ever spoken in the capacity of a family member. Umar raised his eyebrows as if to question the reasoning behind such a peremptory instruction.

‘Peace be upon you, Umar bin Abdallah. But the blacksmith Ibn Haritha has just returned. They dragged him off this morning to attend to the horseshoes which needed repair. He did not hear anything specific, but the eyes of the young captain frightened him. He says that even the Christian soldiers fear him as though he were Satan himself.’

‘And,’ continued Juan, ‘that wretch Ubaydallah has taken fifteen villagers with him to their camp. One can only imagine the stories he will tell to save his own neck. You must return to the house, Master, and seal the gate, till this is over.’

‘I will stay in the village,’ replied Umar in a tone that brooked no dissent. ‘We shall wait for Ubaydallah to return and tell us what they demand. Then, if necessary, I shall go and talk to this captain myself.’