Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

Chapter 2

HOW BEWITCHING, HOW MAGNIFICENT, is a September morning in al-Hudayl. The sun has not yet risen, but its rays have lit the sky and the horizon is painted in different shades of purplish orange. Every creature wallows in this light and the accompanying silence. Soon the birds will start chattering and the muezzin in the village will summon the faithful to prayer.

The two thousand or so people who live in the village are used to these noises. Even those who are not Muslims appreciate the clockwork skills of the muezzin. As for the rest, not all respond to the call. In the master’s house, it is Ama alone who stretches her mat in the courtyard and gets down to the business of the day.

Over half the villagers work on the land, either for themselves or directly for the Banu Hudayl. The rest are weavers, who work at home or on the estate, the men cultivating the worm and the women producing the famous Hudayl silk, for which there is a demand even in the market at Samarkand. Add to these a few shopkeepers, a blacksmith, a cobbler, a tailor, a carpenter, and the village is complete. The retainers on the family estate, with the exception of the Dwarf, Ama and the tribe of gardeners, all return to their families in the village every night.

Zuhayr bin Umar woke early feeling completely refreshed, his wound forgotten, but the cause of it still burning in his head. He looked out of the window and marvelled at the colours of the sky. Half a mile from the village there was a hillock with a large cavity marking the rocks at the summit. Everybody referred to it as the old man’s cave. On that hill, set in the cave, was a tiny, whitewashed room. In that room there lived a man, a mystic, who recited verses in rhymed prose and whose company Zuhayr had begun to value greatly ever since the fall of Gharnata.

No one knew where he had come from or how old he was or when he had arrived. That is what Zuhayr believed. Umar recollected the cave, but insisted that it had been empty when he was a boy and, had, in fact, been used as a trysting place by the peasants. The old man enjoyed enhancing the mystery of his presence in the cave. Whenever Zuhayr asked him any personal questions, he would parry the thrust by bursting into poetry. Despite it all, Zuhayr felt that the old fraud was genuine.

This morning he felt an urgent desire to converse with the dweller in the cave. He left his room and entered the hammam. As he lay in the bath he wished Yazid would wake up and come and talk to him. The brothers enjoyed their bath conversations a great deal, Yazid because he knew that in the bath Zuhayr was a captive for twenty minutes and could not escape, Zuhayr because it was the only opportunity to observe the young hawk at close quarters.

‘Who’s in the bath?’

The voice belonged to Ama. The tone was peremptory.

‘It’s me, Ama.’

‘May Allah bless you. Are you up already? Has the wound…?’

Zuhayr’s laughter stopped her in her tracks. He got out of the bath, robed himself and stepped out into the courtyard.

‘Wound! Let us not joke, Ama. A Christian fool attacked me with a pen-knife and for you I am already on the edge of martyrdom.’

‘The Dwarf is not yet in the kitchen. Should I make you some breakfast?’

‘Yes, but when I return. I’m off to the old man’s cave.’

‘But who will saddle your horse?’

‘You’ve known me since I was born. Do you think I can’t ride a horse bareback?’

‘Give that Iblis a message from me. Tell him I know full well that it was he who stole three hens from us. Tell him if he does so again, I will bring a few young men from the house and have him whipped publicly in the village.’

Zuhayr laughed indulgently and patted her on the head. The old man a common thief? How ridiculous Ama was in her stupid prejudices.

‘You know what I’d love for breakfast today?’

‘What?’

‘The heavenly mixture.’

‘Only if you promise to threaten that Iblis in my name.’

‘I will.’

Fifteen minutes later Zuhayr was galloping towards the old man’s cave on his favourite mount, Khalid. He waved to villagers on their way to the fields, their midday meal packed in a large handkerchief, attached to a staff. Some nodded politely and kept on walking. Others stopped and saluted him cheerfully. News of his confrontation in Gharnata had reached the whole village, and even the sceptics had been forced to utter the odd word of praise. There is no doubt that Zuhayr al-Fahl, Zuhayr the Stallion, as he was known, cut a very fine figure as he raced out of the village. Soon he was a tiny silhouette, now disappearing, now restored to view, as the topography dictated.

The old man saw horse and rider walking up the hill and smiled. The son of Umar bin Abdallah had come for advice once again. The frequency of his visits must displease his parents. What could he want this time?

‘Peace be upon you, old man.’

‘And upon you, Ibn Umar. What brings you here?’

‘I was in Gharnata last night.’

‘I heard.’

‘And…?’

The old man shrugged his shoulders.

‘Was I right or wrong?’

To Zuhayr’s great delight the old man replied in verse:

‘Falsehood hath so corrupted all the world

That wrangling sects each other’s gospel chide;

But were not hate Man’s natural element,

Churches and mosques had risen side by side.’

Zuhayr had not heard this one before and he applauded. ‘One of yours?’

‘Oh foolish boy. Oh ignorant creature. Can you not recognize the voice of a great master? Abu’l Ala al-Ma’ari.’

‘But they say he was an infidel.’

‘They say, they say. Who dares to say that? I defy them to say it in my presence!’

‘Our religious scholars. Men of learning…’

At this point the old man stood up, left his room, followed by a mystified Zuhayr, and adopted a martial pose as he recited from the hill-top in the loudest voice he could muster:

‘What is Religion? A maid kept so close that no eye may view her;

The price of her wedding-gifts and dowry baffles the wooer.

Of all the goodly doctrine that from the pulpit I have heard

My heart has never accepted so much as a single word!’

Zuhayr grinned.

‘Al-Ma’ari again?’

The old man nodded and smiled.

‘I have learnt more from one of his poems than from all the books of religion. And I mean all the books.’

‘Blasphemy!’

‘Just the simple truth.’

Zuhayr was not really surprised by this display of scepticism. He always pretended to be slightly shocked. He did not wish the old man to think that he had won over a new disciple so easily. There was a group of young men in Gharnata, all of them known to Zuhayr and one of them a childhood friend, who rode over twenty miles to this cave at least once a month for lengthy discussions on philosophy, history, the present crisis and the future. Yes, always the future!

The mellow wisdom they imbibed enabled them to dominate the discussion amongst their peers back in Gharnata, and occasionally to surprise their elders with a remark so perceptive that it was repeated in every mosque on the following Friday. It was from his friend Ibn Basit, the recognized leader of the philosopher’s cavalry, that Zuhayr had first heard about the intellectual capacities of the mystic who wrote poetry under the name of al-Zindiq, the Sceptic.

Before that he had unquestioningly accepted the gossip according to which the old man was an eccentric outcast, fed by the shepherds out of kindness. Ama often went further and insisted that he was no longer in full possession of his mind and, for that very reason, should be left to himself and his satanic devices. If she had been right, thought Zuhayr, I would be confronting a primal idiot instead of this quick-witted sage. But why and how had this hostility developed? He smiled.

The old man had been skinning almonds, which lay soaked in a bowl of water, when Zuhayr arrived. Now he began to grind them into a smooth paste, adding a few drops of milk when the mixture became too hard. He looked up and caught the smile.

‘Pleased with yourself, are you? What you did in the city was thoughtless. A deliberate provocation. Fortunately your father is less foolish. If your retainers had killed that Christian, all of you would have been ambushed and killed on the way back.’

‘In Heaven’s name, how do you know?’

The old man did not reply, but transferred the paste from a stone bowl into a cooking pan containing milk. To this concoction he added some wild honey, cardamoms and a stick of cinnamon. He blew on the embers. Within minutes the mixture was bubbling. He reduced the fire by pouring ash on the embers and let it simmer. Zuhayr watched in silence as his senses were overpowered by the aroma. Then the pan was lifted and the old man stirred it vigorously with a well-seasoned wooden spoon and sprinkled some thinly sliced almonds on the liquid. Only then was it poured into two earthenware goblets, one of which was promptly presented to Zuhayr.

The young man sipped it and made ecstatic noises.

‘Pure nectar. This is what they must drink in heaven all the time!’

‘I think once they are up there,’ muttered al-Zindiq, pleased with his success, ‘they are permitted something much stronger.’

‘But I have never tasted anything like this…’

He stopped in mid-sentence and put the goblet down on the ground in front of him. He had tasted this drink somewhere once before, but where? Where? Zuhayr stared at the old man, who withstood the scrutiny.

‘What is the matter now? Too few almonds? Too much honey? These mistakes can ruin the drink, I know, but I have perfected the mixture. Drink it up my young friend. This is not the nectar which the Rumi gods consumed. It is brain juice of the purest kind. It feeds the cells. Ibn Sina it was, I think, who first insisted that almonds stimulated our thought-processes.’

It was a feint. Zuhayr saw that at once. The old man had blundered. Zuhayr now remembered where he had last tasted a similar drink. In the house of Great-Uncle Miguel, near the Great Mosque, in Qurtuba. The old man must have some connection. He must. Zuhayr felt he was close to solving some mystery. What it was he did not know. The old man looked at the expression on the face in front of him and knew instinctively that one of his secrets was close to being uncovered. Before he could embark on a major diversion, his guest decided to go on the offensive.

‘I have a message for you from Ama.’

‘Ama? Ama? What Ama? Which Ama? I do not know any Ama.’

‘My father’s wet-nurse. She’s always been with our family. The whole village knows her. And you, who claim to know everything that goes on in the village, do not know her? It is unbelievable!’

‘Now that you explain it becomes clear. Of course I know who she is and how she always talks of matters which do not concern her. What about her?’

‘She instructed me to inform you that she knew who had stolen three of our egg-laying hens…’

The old man began to roar with laughter at the preposterousness of such a notion. He, a thief?

‘She said that if you did it again she would have you punished in front of the whole village.’

‘Can you see any hens in this cave? Any eggs?’

‘I don’t really care. If you need anything from our house all you have to do is let me know. It will be here within the hour. I was just passing on a message.’

‘Finish your drink. Should I heat some more?’

Zuhayr lifted the goblet and drained it in one gulp. He inspected the old man closely. He could be any age above sixty or perhaps sixty-five. His head was shaved once a week. The snow-white stubble growing on it meant that he was late for his weekly visit to the village barber. He had a very sharp, but small nose, like the beak of a bird, a wrinkled face of olive-brown hues, whose colour varied with the seasons. His eyes dominated everything else. They were not large or striking in the traditional sense, but the very opposite. It was their narrowness which gave them a hypnotic aspect, especially in the middle of heated discussions, when they began to shine like bright lamps in the dark or, as his enemies often said, like those of a cat on heat.

His white beard was trimmed, too neatly trimmed for an ascetic — an indication perhaps of his past. Usually, he was dressed in loose white trousers and a matching shirt. When it was cold he added a dark-brown blanket to the ensemble. Today, as the sun poured into his one-room abode, he was sitting there without a shirt.

It was the wrinkles on his withered chest which gave the real indication of his age. He was, undoubtedly, an old man. But how old? And why that irritating, sphinx-like silence, which contrasted so strangely with his open-minded nature and the fluency of his speech, whenever Zuhayr queried his origins? Not really expecting an answer, the son of Umar bin Abdallah none the less decided to pose the question once again.

‘Who are you, old man?’

‘You mean you really don’t know?’

Zuhayr was taken aback.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Has that Ama of yours never told you? Clearly not. I can see the answer in your face. How incredible! So, they decided to keep quiet after all. Why don’t you ask your parents one day? They know everything there is to know about me. Your search for the truth might be over.’

Zuhayr felt vindicated. So his instincts had been right after all. There was some link with the family.

‘Does Great-Uncle Miguel know who you are?’

The old man’s features clouded. He was displeased. His gaze fixed itself on the remains of the almond drink, and he sunk deep in thought. Suddenly he looked up.

‘How old are you, Zuhayr al-Fahl?’

Zuhayr blushed. From al-Zindiq’s lips, the nickname he had acquired sounded more like an accusation.

‘I will be twenty-three next month.’

‘Good. And why do the villagers call you al-Fahl?’

‘I suppose because I love horse-riding. Even my father says that when he sees me riding Khalid he gets a feeling that the horse and I are one.’

‘Complete nonsense. Mystical rubbish! Do you ever get that feeling?’

‘Well, no. Not really, but it is true that I can get a horse, any horse you know, not just Khalid, to go faster than any of the men in the village.’

‘Ibn Umar, understand one thing. That is not the reason they call you al-Fahl.’

Zuhayr was embarrassed. Was the old devil launching yet another line of attack to protect his own flank?

‘Young master, you know what I’m talking about. It isn’t just riding horses, is it? You jump on their women whenever you get the chance. I am told that you have a taste for deflowering the village virgins. The truth now!’

Zuhayr stood up in a rage.

‘That is a lie. A gross calumny. I have never entered a wench against her will. Anyone who says otherwise I challenge to armed combat. This is not a joking matter.’

‘Nobody has suggested that you force them. How could they be forced when it is your right? What use are wide open legs, if the mind remains closed? Why has my question annoyed you so much? Your father is a decent man, not given to excesses of any sort, but episodes such as these have been taking place in your family for centuries. Hot-blooded fool, sit down. Did you not hear me, sit down.’

Zuhayr did as he was told.

‘Do you know Ibn Hasd, the cobbler?’

Zuhayr was perplexed by the question — what had that venerable figure to do with such a discussion? — but he nodded.

‘Next time you meet him, study his features closely. You might see a resemblance.’

‘To whom?’

‘A general family resemblance, that’s all.’

‘Which family?’

‘Yours, of course. Look for the mark of the Banu Hudayl.’

‘Crazy old man. Ibn Hasd is a Jew. Like his forefathers…’

‘What has that got to do with it? His mother used to be the most beautiful woman in the village. Your great-grandfather, Ibn Farid, espied her bathing in the river one day. He waited for her to finish and then forced her. The result was Ibn Hasd, who really is Ibn Mohammed!’

Zuhayr laughed. ‘At least the old warrior had good taste. Somehow I can’t imagine him as a…’

‘Al-Fahl?’ suggested the old man helpfully.

Zuhayr stood up to take his leave. The sun was high in the sky and he began thinking of Ama’s heavenly mixture. The old man had outwitted him once again.

‘I will take my leave now and I will do as you say. I will ask my father about your history.’

‘Why are you in such a hurry?’

‘Ama promised to make some heavenly mixture and…’

‘Amira and her heavenly mixtures! Does nothing ever change in that cursed house? You have a weakness, Zuhayr al-Fahl. A weakness that will be your undoing. You are too easily convinced. Your friends lead you where they want, you become their tail. You do not question enough. You must think for yourself. Always! It is vital in these times when a simple choice is no longer abstract, but a matter of life or death.’

‘You of all people have no right to say that. Have I not been questioning you for over two years? Have I not been persistent, old man?’

‘Oh yes. I cannot deny that, but why then are you leaving just as I am about to tell you what you wish to know?’

‘But I thought you said that I should ask…’

‘Exactly. It was a ruse to distract you and, as always, it worked. Foolish boy! Your father will never tell you anything. Your mother? To tell the truth I do not know. She is a spirited lady and much respected, but on this matter I think she will follow your father. Remain with me, Ibn Umar. Soon I will tell you all.’

Zuhayr began to tremble in anticipation. The old man heated some water and prepared a container of coffee, after which he moved the cooking utensils to one side and dragged a large, well-used, hand-woven rug to the centre of the cave. He sat down cross-legged and beckoned Zuhayr to join him. When they were both seated, the old man poured out two bowls. He sipped noisily and began to speak.

‘We thought the old days might end everywhere else, but never in our Gharnata. We were convinced that the kingdom of Islam would survive in al-Andalus, but we underestimated our own capacity for self-destruction. Those days will never return, and do you know why? Because the self-styled defenders of the faith quarrelled amongst themselves, killed each other, and proved incapable of uniting against the Christians. In the end it was too late.

‘When Sultan Abu Abdullah was looking for the last time on his lost kingdom, he started to weep, whereupon his mother, the Lady Ayesha, remarked: “You may well weep like a woman, for what you could not defend like a man.” I always felt this was unfair. By that time the Christians had overwhelming military superiority. We used to think that the Sultan of Turkey might send us help, and look-outs were posted in Malaka, but nothing came. All that was just fifteen years ago. The times I am going to tell you about are almost a hundred years old.

‘Your great-grandfather, Ibn Farid, was an exceptional soldier. It is said that he was more feared by the Christian knights than even Ibn Kassim, and that, believe me, is saying a lot. Once at the siege of Medina Sid he rode out alone on his steed and galloped to the tent of the Castilian King. “Oh King of the Christians,” he shouted. “I challenge each and every one of your knights to personal combat. The Emir has instructed me to tell you that if I am felled by one of your men we will open the gates to you, but if, by the time the sun sets, I am still on my horse, then you must retreat.”

‘Their King, knowing your great-grandfather’s reputation, was reluctant to agree, but the Christian knights rebelled. They felt that to refuse such an offer was an insult to their manhood. So the offer was accepted. And what had to happen, happened. When the sun had set, the lord of the Banu Hudayl was dripping with blood, but he was still on his horse. Nearly sixty Christian knights lay dead. The siege was lifted… for a week. Then they came back, took the garrison by surprise, and ultimately won, but Ibn Farid had returned to al-Hudayl by that time.

‘Your grandfather Abdallah was only two years old when his much-loved mother, the Lady Najma, died giving birth to your Great-Aunt Zahra. Her younger sister, the Lady Maryam took her place and became a mother to the two children. And what a mother. It is said that the children grew up believing that she was their real mother.’

Zuhayr was beginning to get impatient. ‘Are you sure this is the story of your life? It sounds more like mine. I was brought up on fairy stories about my great-grandfather.’

Al-Zindiq’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Zuhayr. ‘If you interrupt me once more, I will never discuss the matter with you again. Is that clear?’

Zuhayr indicated his agreement to these harsh conditions and the old man resumed the tale.

‘But there were problems. Ibn Farid showed great respect and affection to his new wife, but passion there was none. Maryam could substitute for her sister in every other way, but not in your great-grandfather’s bed. He simply lost the use of that implement with which every man has been endowed. Many physicians and healers came to see him. Restorative potions of the most exotic sort arrived and were poured down his throat to revive his lost ardour. Nothing happened. Beautiful virgins were paraded before his bed, but nothing moved.

‘What they did not realize was that diseases of the mind cannot be cured like those of the body. You see, my young friend, when the spirits are low the cock does not crow! Are you sure you don’t know any of this?’

Zuhayr shook his head.

‘I am truly surprised to learn that. Both Ama and the Dwarf know every detail. One of them should have told you.’ And the old man expressed his disapproval of the pair he had named by sniffing violently and spitting the phlegm out of the cave with both skill and accuracy.

‘Please do not stop now. I must know it all,’ said Zuhayr, in a voice which was both pleading and impatient. The old man smiled as he poured out some more coffee.

‘One day when Ibn Farid was visiting his uncle in Qurtuba, the two of them rode out of the city to the village of a Christian nobleman whose family and yours had been friends since the fall of Ishbiliya. The nobleman, Don Alvaro, was not at home. Nor was his lady. But while they were waiting a young serving maid brought in some fruit and drinks. She must have been fifteen or sixteen years old at the most.

‘Her name was Beatrice and she was a beautifully shaped creature. Her skin was the colour of ripe apricots, her eyes were the shape of almonds, and her whole face smiled. I saw her soon afterwards and even as a boy it was difficult not to be affected by her beauty. Ibn Farid could not take his eyes off her. His uncle realized straight away what had happened. He attempted to leave, but your great-grandfather refused to stir from the house. His uncle later told the family that even then he had a presentiment that Ibn Farid was heading for the precipice, but all his warnings and fears and evil portents were of no avail. Ibn Farid was known for his obstinacy.

‘When Don Alvaro returned with his sons, they were delighted to see the visitors. A feast was prepared. Beds were made ready. There was no question of the two men being permitted to return to Qurtuba that night. A messenger was dispatched to inform the family that Ibn Farid would not be returning till the next day. You can guess how delighted he was. Finally, late at night, the great warrior meekly asked his host about the maid.

‘“You too, my friend, you too?” said Don Alvaro. “Beatrice is the daughter of Dorothea, our cook. What is it that you desire? If you want to bed the wench it could, no doubt, be arranged.”

‘Imagine Don Alvaro’s surprise when his generous response led to Ibn Farid rising from his cushions, red in the face with anger, and challenging his host to a duel. Don Alvaro realized that the matter was serious. He stood up and hugged Ibn Farid. “What is it you desire my friend?” Everyone became silent. Ibn Farid’s voice was choked with emotion. “I want her for my wife, that is all.” His uncle fainted at this stage, though he had probably just succumbed to the alcohol. What could Don Alvaro say? He said the girl’s father was dead and he would have to ask Dorothea, but he was candid enough to make it clear that, since the woman was in his employment, a refusal was most unlikely.

‘Your great-grandfather could not wait. “Summon her now!” Don Alvaro did as he was told. A perplexed and puzzled Dorothea arrived and bowed to the assembled company. “Oh Dorothea,” Don Alvaro began, “my guests have enjoyed your food a great deal and this great knight, Ibn Farid, compliments you on your cooking. He also compliments you on the beauty of young Beatrice. We who have seen her grow up these last few years take her features for granted, but to any outside she appears devastating. Have you any plans for her marriage?” Poor woman, what could she say? She too was very striking, with her magnificent frame and flowing red hair which reached her knees. She was stunned by the enquiry. She shook her head in disbelief. “Well then,” Don Alvaro continued, “I have good news for you. My friend, Ibn Farid, wants her for his wife. Understand? His wife for all time, not a concubine for one night! He will pay you a handsome dowry. What do you say?”

‘You can imagine, Ibn Umar, the state of that poor woman. She started weeping, which moved Ibn Farid, and he spoke and explained to her once again that his intentions were fully honourable. She looked then at Don Alvaro and said: “As you please, my Lord. She has no father. You decide.” And Don Alvaro decided at that very moment that on the next morning Beatrice would become your great-grandmother number three. More wine was consumed. Such joy, we were later told, had not been seen on the face of your ancestor since the day your grandfather was born. He was in the seventh heaven. He began to sing, and he did so with such obvious joy and passion that the infection spread and they all joined him. He never forgot that poem and it was sung in your home regularly from that time on.’

Zuhayr stiffened.

‘Was it the Khamriyya? The Hymn to Wine?’

The old man smiled and nodded. Zuhayr, deeply moved by the story of Ibn Farid’s passion, suddenly burst into song.

‘Let the swelling tide of passion my senses drown!

Pity love’s fuel, this long-smouldering heart,

Nor answer with a frown,

When I would fain behold thee as thou art.

For love is life, and death in love the heaven

Wherein all sins are readily forgiven…’

‘Wa Allah!’ the old man exclaimed. ‘You sing well.’

‘I learnt the words from my father.’

‘And he from his, but it was the first time that was the most important. Should I continue or have you had enough for today? The sun is already shining on the peaks. Your heavenly mixture awaits you at home. If you are tired…’

‘Please continue. Please!’

And the old man continued.

‘The next morning, after breakfast, Beatrice converted to Islam. When offered a choice of Muslim names she appeared puzzled, and so it came about that even her new name was decided by her husband-to-be. Asma. Asma bint Dorothea.

‘Poor child. She had been informed about her impending nuptials when she woke up, early that morning, to clean the kitchen and light the fire. She was in tears. Some hours later, the wedding ceremony took place. It was your great-grandfather’s uncle who, as the only other Muslim present, had to perform the ritual. Ours is a simple religion. Birth, death, marriage, divorce do not involve any elaborate rituals, unlike the system devised by the monks.

‘Ibn Farid was in a hurry because he wanted to present the family with an irreversible fact. Any delay, he felt, could have been fatal. The brothers of Najma and Maryam belonged to that section of the family which specialized in settling disputes with other clans. They were expert assassins. Naturally they would regard it as an outrage that their sister was being bypassed in favour of a Christian slave-girl. Concubines are, as you know, permissible. But this was different. A new mistress of the household was being chosen without their knowledge or consent. She would, no doubt, bear him children. Given time to think they might have tried to kill Beatrice. Ibn Farid was known throughout al-Andalus as “the lion” for his courage, but he could play the fox with equal skill. If he was actually married, he knew that he would have the advantage of his brothers-in-law. Of course his uncle was angry, but he did not quarrel with his nephew in the house of Don Alvaro. That came later.

‘So Ibn Farid and Asma bint Dorothea returned to Qurtuba. They rested for a day and a night before beginning the two-day journey to the kingdom of Gharnata and the safety of al-Hudayl. Unknown to Ibn Farid news had already reached the house, through a special messenger, dispatched by his uncle.

‘The atmosphere in the house was one of mourning. Your grandfather Abdallah, was then eighteen years old, already a man. Your great-aunt, Zahra, was four years younger, the same age as myself. They were walking up and down in the courtyard through which the stream flows, and they were both in a state of great agitation. I was watching them get more and more upset without knowing the cause. When I asked your grandfather he shouted at me: “Son of a dog, get out of here. It is none of your concern.” He had never spoken like that to me before. As the Lady Maryam came out of her room, both of them rushed up to her and embraced her, weeping all the while. My insolence was happily forgotten. I loved your grandfather very much, and what he said to me that day hurt me badly. Later, of course, I understood the reason for his anger, but till that day I had always played with him and Zahra as an equal. Something had changed. Once calm had returned we both tried to return to our habits of the old days, but it was never the same again. I could never forget that he was the young master and he was constantly reminded that I was the son of a serving woman, who had now been assigned the duty of attending to the needs of the Lady Asma.’

At last, thought Zuhayr, he is beginning to talk about himself; but before he could ask a question, the old man had moved on.

‘Lady Maryam was the most gentle of women, even though her tongue could be very cruel if any of the maids, except of course for your Ama, attempted even the tiniest degree of familiarity. I remember her so well. Sometimes she used to go and bathe in a large freshwater pool made by the river. She was preceded by six serving women and followed by another four maid-servants. They held sheets on either side of her to ensure total privacy. The party usually proceeded in silence unless Zahra happened to be with her. Then aunt and niece chattered away and the maids were permitted to laugh at Zahra’s remarks. The servants respected Maryam, but did not like her. Her dead sister’s children worshipped her blindly. For your grandfather and great-aunt she could do no wrong. They knew their father was not happy with her. They felt, the way children usually do, that whatever the problem was it went very deep, but they never stopped loving her.’

The old man stopped abruptly and peered into his listener’s troubled eyes.

‘Something is worrying you, young master? Do you wish to leave now and return another day? The story cannot run away.’

Zuhayr’s eyes had picked up a small figure on the horizon and the dust indicated it was a rider galloping on a mission. He suspected it was a messenger from al-Hudayl.

‘I fear we are about to be interrupted. If the man on horseback is a messenger from our house, I will return at sunrise tomorrow. Could you satisfy my curiosity on one question, before I leave today?’

‘Ask.’

‘Who are you, old man? Your mother served in our house, but who was your father? Could you be a member of our family?’

‘I am not sure. My mother was a piece of the dowry, a serving girl who came with the Lady Najma from Qurtuba when she married Ibn Farid. She must have been sixteen or seventeen years old at the time. My father? Who knows? My mother said that he was a gardener on your estates, who was killed in one of the battles near Malaka the year I was born. It is true that she was married to him, but Heaven alone knows if he was my father. In later years, after the sudden and mysterious death of Asma bint Dorothea and the strange circumstances of my own mother’s demise, I would hear stories about my real father. It was said the seed which produced me was planted by Ibn Farid. It would certainly explain his behaviour in later years, but if that had been the case my mother would have told me herself. I stopped caring much about it.’

Zuhayr was intrigued by this turn of events. He now remembered vaguely the stories Ama used to tell about the tragedy of the Lady Asma, but he could not even recall their outlines. He was desperate to stay and hear it all, but the dust seemed closer.

‘You are still concealing one important fact.’

‘What may that be?’

‘Your name, old man, your name.’

The old man’s head, which had been held erect for all this time, suddenly slumped as he contemplated the patterns on the rug. Then he looked up at Zuhayr and smiled.

‘I have long forgotten the name my mother gave me. Perhaps your Ama or the Dwarf will remember. For too many decades my friends and enemies have known me as Wajid al-Zindiq. That was the name I used when I wrote my first book. It is a name of which I am still very proud.’

‘You claimed you knew why they called me al-Fahl. I will have to think hard to come up with something equally sharp to explain to you why you acquired such a name.’

‘The answer is simple. It describes me well. I am, after all, a sceptic, an ecstatic freethinker!’

Both of them laughed. As the horseman arrived outside the cave, they stood up and Zuhayr, impulsive as usual, hugged the old man and kissed his cheeks. Al-Zindiq was moved by the gesture. Before he could say anything the messenger coughed gently.

‘Come in, man. Enter. Is it a message from my father?’ said Zuhayr.

The boy nodded. He was barely thirteen years old.

‘Excuse me, my lord, but the master says you must return at once. They were expecting you back for breakfast.’

‘Good. You climb on that mule you call a horse and ride back. Tell them I am on my way. Wait. I’ve changed my mind. Go back now. I will overtake you in a few minutes. I will greet my father myself. There are no messages.’

The boy nodded, and was about to leave when al-Zindiq stopped him. ‘Come here, son. Are you thirsty?’

The boy looked at Zuhayr, who nodded slightly. The boy eagerly took the cup of water he was being offered and drank it in one gulp.

‘Here, take a few dates for your ride back. You will have time to eat them after the young master has overtaken you.’

The boy gratefully accepted the fruit, bowed to the men and was soon to be seen coaxing his horse to retrace their route to the mountain.

‘Peace be upon you, Wajid al-Zindiq.’

‘And you, my son. Could I request a favour?’

‘Whatever you like.’

‘When your father permitted me to live here a quarter of a century ago he insisted on one condition and that alone. My lips were to remain sealed on all affairs concerning his family. If he were ever to discover that this condition had been breached, his permission would be withdrawn. And so would the supplies of food which your mother has so kindly organized for me. My future depends on your silence. There is nowhere else left for me to go.’

Zuhayr was outraged.

‘But this is unacceptable. It is unjust. It is not like my father. I will…’

‘You will do nothing. Your father may have been wrong, but he had his reasons. I want your pledge that you will remain silent.’

‘You have my word. I swear on the al-koran…’

‘Your word alone is sufficient.’

‘Of course, al-Zindiq, but in return I want your promise that you will complete the story.’

‘I had every intention of doing so.’

‘Peace be upon you then, old man.’

Al-Zindiq walked to where Khalid was tethered and smiled appreciatively as Zuhayr jumped on to his bare back. Al-Zindiq patted the horse.

‘Riding a horse without a sack…’

‘I know,’ shouted Zuhayr, ‘… is like riding on a devil’s back. If that were true, all I can say is that the devil must have a comfortable back.’

‘Peace be upon you, al-Fahl. May your house flourish,’ shouted the old man with a grin on his face as Zuhayr galloped down the hill.

For a while al-Zindiq stood there silently appreciating the skill of the departing horseman.

‘I used to ride like that once. You remember don’t you, Zahra?’

There was no reply.