Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

Chapter 4

‘THERE IS NO OTHER way. If necessary we must permit Providence to avail itself of the darkness of the dungeon and pour the light of the true faith on the benighted minds of these infidels. Friar Talavera my illustrious predecessor, tried other methods and failed. Personally, I believe that the decision to publish the Latin-Arabic dictionary was misguided but enough said on that question. That phase is mercifully over, and with it, I trust, the illusion that these infidels will come to us through learning and rational discourse.

‘You look displeased, Excellency. I am fully aware that a softer policy might suit the needs of our temporal diplomacy, but you will excuse my bluntness. Nothing more or less than the future of thousands of souls is at stake. And it is these which I am commanded by our Holy Church to save and protect. I am convinced that the heathen, if they cannot be drawn towards us voluntarily, should be driven in our direction so that we can push them on to the path of true salvation. The ruins of Mahometanism are tottering to their foundations. This is no time to stay our hand.’

Ximenes de Cisneros spoke with passion. He was hampered by the fact that the man sitting on a chair facing him was Don Inigo Lopez de Mendoza, Count of Tendilla, Mayor and Captain-General of Granada, which the Moors called Gharnata, Don Inigo had deliberately chosen to be dressed in Moorish robes for this particular meeting. It was a style that greatly distressed the Archbishop.

‘For a spiritual leader, Your Grace reveals a remarkable capacity for interceding in matters temporal. Have you thought about this matter seriously? Their majesties did agree the terms of surrender, which I drafted, did they not, Father? I was present when a solemn undertaking was given to their Sultan by the Queen. We agreed to leave them in peace. Friar Talavera is still greatly respected in the Albaicin because he kept to the terms that had been agreed.

‘I will be blunt with you, Archbishop. Till your arrival we had no serious problems in this kingdom. You failed to win them over by force of argument and now you wish to resort to the methods of the Inquisition.’

‘Practical methods, Excellency. Tried and tested.’

‘Yes, tried and tested on Catholics whose property you wanted to possess and on Jews who have never ruled over a kingdom and who bought their freedom by paying out gold ducats and converting to our religion. The same methods will not work here. Most of the people we call Moors are our own people. Just like you and me. They have ruled over a very large portion of our peninsula. They did so without burning too many bibles or tearing down all our churches or setting synagogues alight in order to build their mesquitas. They are not a rootless phenomenon. They cannot be wiped out with a lash of the whip. They will resist. More blood will be spilled. Theirs and ours.’

Cisneros stared at the Count with a look of pure contempt. If it had been any other grandee of the kingdom, the Archbishop would have declared to his face that he spoke thus because his own blood was impure, tainted with an injection from Africa. But this wretched man was no ordinary noble. His family was one of the most distinguished in the country. It boasted several poets, administrators and warriors in the service of the true faith. The Mendozas had employed genealogists who traced their descent back to the Visigothic kings. Cisneros had yet to be convinced by this last detail, but the pedigree was impressive enough, even without the Visigoth connections. Cisneros knew the family well. He himself had been a protege of the king-making Cardinal Mendoza. After all, the whole country was aware of the fact that the Captain-General’s paternal uncle had, as Cardinal and Archbishop of Seville, aided Isabella to outwit her niece and usurp the Castilian throne in 1478. The Mendoza family was therefore held in very high regard by the present King and Queen.

Cisneros knew he had to be careful, but it was the Count who had violated the norms which governed relations between Church and State. He decided to remain calm. There would be other opportunities to punish the man’s arrogance. Cisneros spoke in the softest voice he could muster for the occasion. ‘Is Your Excellency charging the Inquisition with corruption on a grand scale?’

‘Did I mention the word corruption?’

‘No, but the implication…’

‘Implication? What implication? I merely pointed out, my dear Friar Cisneros, that the Inquisition was amassing a gigantic fortune for the Church. The confiscated estates alone could fund three wars against the Turks. Could they not?’

‘What would Your Excellency do with the property?’

‘Tell me, Father, is it always the case that the children of your so-called heretics are also guilty?’

‘We take for granted the loyalty of the members of a family to each other.’

‘So a Christian whose father is a Mahometan or a Jew is never to be trusted.’

‘Never is perhaps too strong.’

‘How is it then that Torquemada, whose Jewish ancestry was well known, presided over the Inquisition?’

‘To prove his loyalty to the Church he had to be more vigilant than the scion of a noble family whose lineage can be traced to the Visigoth kings.’

‘I begin to understand your logic. Well, be that as it may, I will not have the Moors subjected to any further humiliations. You have done enough. Burning their books was a disgrace. A stain on our honour. Their manuals on science and medicine are without equal in the civilized world.’

‘They were saved.’

‘It was an act of savagery, man. Are you too blind to understand?’

‘And yet Your Excellency did not countermand my orders.’

It was Don Inigo’s turn to stare at the priest with anger. The rebuke was just. It had been cowardice on his part, pure cowardice. A courtier, freshly arrived from Ishbiliya, had informed him that the Queen had sent a secret instruction to the Archbishop which included the order to destroy the libraries. He now knew that this had been a fabrication. Cisneros had deliberately misled the courtier and encouraged him to misinform the Captain-General. Don Inigo knew he had been tricked, but it was no excuse. He should have countermanded the order, forced Cisneros out into the open with the supposed message from Isabella. The priest was smiling at him. ‘The man’s a devil,’ the Count told himself. ‘He smiles with his lips, never his eyes.’

‘One flock and one shepherd, Excellency. That is what this country needs if it is to survive the storms that confront our Church in the New World.’

‘You are blissfully unaware of your own good fortune, Archbishop. Had it not been for the Hebrews and the Moors, the natural enemies who have helped you to keep the Church in one piece, Christian heretics would have created havoc in this peninsula. I did not mean to startle you. It is not a very profound thought. I thought you would have worked that out for yourself.’

‘You are wrong, Excellency. It is the destruction of the Hebrews and the Moors which is necessary to preserve our Church.’

‘We are both right in our different ways. I have many people waiting to see me. We must continue this conversation another day.’

And in this brusque fashion the Count of Tendilla informed Ximenes de Cisneros that his audience was over. The priest rose and bowed. Don Inigo stood up, and Cisneros saw him resplendent in his Moorish robes. The priest flinched.

‘I see my clothes displease you just as much as my thoughts.’

‘The two do not appear to be unrelated, Excellency.’

The Captain-General roared with laughter. ‘I do not grudge you the cowl. Why should my robes annoy you? They are so much more comfortable than what is worn at court. I feel buried alive in those tights and doublets whose only function appears to be the constriction of the most precious organs which God saw fit to bestow. This robe which I wear is designed to comfort our bodies, and is not so unlike your cowl as you might imagine. These clothes are designed to be worn in their Alhambra. Anything else would clash with the colours of these intricate geometric patterns. Surely even you can appreciate that, Friar. I think there is a great deal to be said for communicating directly with the Creator without the help of graven images, but I am approaching blasphemy and I do not wish to upset or detain you any further…’

The prelate’s lips curled into a sinister smile. He muttered something under his breath, bowed and left the room. Don Inigo looked out of the window. Underneath the palace was the Albaicin, the old quarter where the Muslims, Jews and Christians of this town had lived and traded for centuries. The Captain-General was buried in his own reflections of the past and present when he heard a discreet cough and turned round to see his Jewish major-domo, Ben Yousef, carrying a tray with two silver cups and a matching jar containing coffee.

‘Excuse my intrusion, Excellency, but your guest has been waiting for over an hour.’

‘Heavens above! Show him in, Ben Yousef. Immediately.’

The servant retreated. When he returned it was to usher Umar into the audience-chamber.

‘His Graciousness, Umar bin Abdallah, Your Excellency.’

Umar saluted Don Inigo in the traditional fashion.

‘Peace be upon you, Don Inigo.’

The Count of Tendilla moved towards his guest with arms outstretched and hugged him.

‘Welcome, welcome, Don Homer. How are you, my old friend? No formalities between us. Please be seated.’

This time Don Inigo sat on the cushions laid near the window and asked Umar to join him there. The major-domo poured coffee and served the two men. His master nodded to him and he moved backwards out of the chamber. Umar smiled.

‘I am glad you retained his services.’

‘You did not come all this way to compliment me on my choice of servants, Don Homer.’

Umar and Don Inigo had known each other since they were children. Their grandfathers had fought against each other in legendary battles which had long since become part of the folklore on both sides, then the two heroes had become close friends and begun to visit each other regularly. Both grandfathers knew the true costs of war and were greatly entertained by the myths surrounding their names.

In the years before 1492, Inigo had called his friend Homer simply because he had difficulties in pronouncing the Arabic ‘U’. The use of the prefix ‘Don’ was more recent. It could be dated very precisely to the Conquest of Gharnata. There was no point in taking offence. In his heart, Umar knew that Don Inigo was no longer his friend. In his mind he suspected that Don Inigo felt the same about himself. The two men had not met for several months. The whole sad business was a charade, but appearances had to be maintained. It could not be admitted that all chivalry had been extinguished by the Reconquest.

Good relations had been kept up through the regular exchange of fruits and sweetmeats on their respective feast-days. Last Christmas had been the only exception. Nothing had arrived at the Captain-General’s residence at the al-Hamra from the family of Hudayl. Don Inigo was hurt but not surprised. The wall of fire had preceded Christ’s birthday by a few weeks. Umar bin Abdallah was not the only Muslim notable to have boycotted the celebrations.

It was with the express purpose of repairing the breach that now existed between them, that Don Inigo had sent for his old friend. And here he was, just as in the old days, sipping his coffee as he stared through the carved tracery of the window. Except that in years gone by, Umar would have been seated with the Sultan Abu Abdallah as a member of his council, giving advice to the ruler regarding Gharnata’s relations with its Christian neighbours.

‘Don Homer, I know why you are angry. You should have stayed at home that night. What was it that your grandfather once told mine? Ah, yes, I remember. When the eye does not see the heart cannot grieve. I want you to know that the decision was not mine. It was Cisneros, the Queen’s Archbishop, who decided to burn your books of learning.’

‘You are the Captain-General of Gharnata, Don Inigo.’

‘Yes, but how could I challenge the will of Queen Isabella?’

‘By reminding her of the terms which she and her husband signed in this very room, in your presence and mine, over eight years ago. Instead you remained silent and averted your eyes as one of the greatest infamies of the civilized world was perpetrated in this city. The Tatars who burned down the Baghdad library over two centuries ago were illiterate barbarians, frightened of the written word. For them it was an instinctive act. What Cisneros has done is much worse. It is cold-blooded and carefully planned…’

‘I…’

‘Yes, you! Your Church put the axe to a tree that afforded free shade for all. You think it will benefit your side. Perhaps, but for how long? A hundred years? Two hundred? It is possible, but in the long run this stunted civilization is doomed. It will be overtaken by the rest of Europe. Surely you understand that it is the future of this peninsula which has been destroyed. The men who set fire to books, torture their opponents and burn heretics at the stake will not be able to build a house with stable foundations. The Church’s curse will damn this peninsula.’

Umar felt himself going out of control and stopped suddenly. A weak smile appeared on his face.

‘Forgive me. I did not come here to preach a sermon. It is always presumptuous of the vanquished to lecture their victors. I came, if you want the truth, to discover what your plans are for dealing with us.’

Don Inigo stood up and began to pace up and down in the large audience-chamber. There were two options before him. He could deploy a troop of honeyed words and calm his friend, assure him that whatever else happened or did not happen, the Banu Hudayl would always be free to live as they had always lived. He would have liked to say all that and more, but he knew that it was not true, even though he wanted it to be true. It would only make Homer more angry, since he would see it as yet another example of Christian deception. The Count decided to abandon diplomacy.

‘I will be blunt with you, my friend. You know what I would like. You see how I am dressed. My entourage consists of Jews and Moors. For me, a Granada without them is like a desert without an oasis. But I am on my own. The Church and the court have decided that your religion must be wiped out from these lands forever. They have the soldiers and the weapons to ensure that this is done. I know that there will be resistance, but it will be foolish and self-defeating for your cause and ultimately we will defeat you. Cisneros understands this better than anyone else on our side. You were about to say something?’

‘If we had used our iron fists to deal with Christianity the way you treat us now, this situation might never have arisen.’

‘Spoken like the owl of Minerva. Instead you attempted to bring civilization to the whole peninsula regardless of faith or creed. It was noble of you and now you must pay the price. The war had to end sooner or later with the final victory of one side and the definitive defeat of the other. My advice to your family is to convert at once. If you do so I pledge that I will personally be present and will even drag Cisneros to your estates with me to bless you all. That would be the best protection I could afford your family and your village. Do not take offence, my friend. I may sound cynical, but in the end what is important is for you and yours to remain alive and in possession of the estates which have been in your family for so long. I know that the Bishop of Qurtuba has tried to persuade you as well, but…’

Umar rose and saluted Don Inigo.

‘I appreciate your bluntness. You are a true friend. But I cannot accept what you say. My family is not prepared to swear allegiance to the Roman Church or any other. I thought about it many times, Don Inigo. I even considered murder. Do not be startled. I tried to kill our past, to exorcise memory once and for all, but they are stubborn creatures, they refuse to die. I have a feeling, Don Inigo, that if our roles had been reversed your answer would not have been so different.’

‘I am not so sure. Just look at me. I think I would have made a reasonably good Mahometan. How is your little Yazid? I was hoping you would bring him with you.’

‘It was not an appropriate time. Now, if you will excuse me, I must take my leave. Peace be upon you, Don Inigo.’

‘Adios, Don Homer. For my part I would like our friendship to continue.’

Although Umar smiled, he said nothing as he left the chamber. His horse and his bodyguard were waiting outside the Jannat-al-Arif, the summer gardens where he had first encountered Zubayda, but Umar was in no mood for nostalgia. Mendoza’s crisp message still echoed in his ears. Not even the magical sound of water as he approached the gardens could distract him today. Till a few weeks ago he had thought of Gharnata as an occupied land which might be liberated once again at the right time. The Castilians had many enemies at home and abroad. The minute they were embroiled in another war, that would be the time to strike. Everything else must be subordinated to that goal. This is what Umar had told his Muslim fellow grandees at several gatherings since the surrender of the town.

The wall of fire had changed all that, and now the Captain-General had confirmed his worst thoughts. The worshippers of icons were not content with a simple military presence in Gharnata. It was naïve to have imagined that they would adhere to the agreements in the first place. They wanted to occupy minds, to pierce hearts, to remould souls. They would not rest till they had been successful.

Gharnata, once the safest haven for the followers of the Prophet in al-Andalus, had now become a dangerous furnace. ‘If we stay here,’ Umar spoke to himself, ‘we are finished.’ He was not simply thinking about the Banu Hudayl, but the fate of Islam in al-Andalus. His bodyguard, seeing him from a distance and surprised at the brevity of the interview, ran to the gate of the garden with his master’s sword and pistol. Still engrossed in his thoughts, Umar rode down to the stables, where he dismounted and then walked a few hundred yards to the familiar and comforting mansion of his cousin Hisham in the old quarter.

While his father had been at the al-Hamra, Zuhayr had spent the morning in the public bath with his friends. After cleansing themselves with steam, they were taken in hand by the bath attendants, thoroughly scrubbed with hard sponges, and washed with soap before entering the bath, where they were alone. Here they relaxed and began to exchange confidences. Zuhayr’s small shoulder scar was being admired by his friends.

There were over sixty such baths in Gharnata alone. The afternoons were reserved for women and the men had no choice but to bathe in the mornings. The bath where Zuhayr found himself today was restricted by tradition for the use of young noblemen and their friends. There had been occasions, especially during the summer when parties of mixed bathers had arrived and bathed, without attendants, in the light of the moon, but such occasions had been rare and seemed to have ended with the conquest.

In the old days, prior to the fall of Gharnata, the bath had been a centre for social and political gossip. Usually the talk dwelled on sexual adventures and feats. Sometimes erotic poetry was recited and discussed, especially in the afternoon sessions. Now hardly anything seemed to matter except politics — the latest series of atrocities, which family had converted, who had offered money to bribe the Church, and, of course, the fateful night which was burned in their collective memory and which caused even those who had previously expressed a total indifference to politics to sit up and take stock.

The political temperature in Zuhayr’s bath was subdued. Three more faqihs had died under torture two days before. Fear was beginning to have its effect. The mood was one of despair and fatalism. Zuhayr, who had been listening patiently to his friends, all of them scions of the Muslim aristocracy in Gharnata, suddenly raised his voice.

‘The choices are simple. Convert, be killed, or die with our swords in our hands.’

Musa bin Ali had lost two brothers in the chaos which had preceded the entry of Ferdinand and Isabella into the city. His father had died defending the fortress of al-Hama, which lay to the west of Gharnata. His mother clung to Musa with a desperation which he found irksome, but he knew that he could not override his responsibility to her and his two sisters. Whenever Musa spoke, which was not often, he was heard in respectful silence.

‘The choices underlined by our brother Zuhayr bin Umar are correct, but in his impatience he has forgotten that there is another alternative. It is the one which Sultan Abu Abdullah chose. Like him we could cross the water and find a home on the coast of the Maghreb. I may as well tell you that it is what my mother wants us to do.’

Zuhayr’s eyes flashed with anger.

‘Why should we go anywhere? This is our home. My family built al-Hudayl. It was barren land before we came. We built the village. We irrigated the lands. We planted the orchards. Oranges and pomegranates and limes and palm trees and the rice. I am not a Berber. I have nothing to do with the Maghreb. I will live in my home, and death to the unbeliever who tries to take it away from me by force.’

The temperature in the baths rose dramatically. Then a young man with a carefully chiselled face, pale olive skin and eyes the colour of green marble coughed suggestively. He could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen years of age. Everyone looked at him. He was new to the town, having arrived from Balansiya only a few weeks ago and before that from the great university of al-Azhar in al-Qahira. He had come to do some historical research on the life and work of his great-grandfather Ibn Khaldun, and study some of the manuscripts in the libraries in Gharnata. Unfortunately for his project, he had arrived on the very day that Cisneros had chosen to burn the books. The man with the green eyes had been heartbroken. He had wept all night in his tiny room in the Funduq al-Yadida. By the time morning came he had already decided upon the course which the remainder of his life would take. He spoke in a soft tone, but it was the music in his Qahirene speech, as much as his message, that entranced his fellow bathers.

‘When I saw the flames in the Bab al-Ramla consuming the work of centuries, I thought that it was all over. It was as if Satan had plunged his poisoned fist through the heart of the mountain and reversed the flow of the stream. Everything we had planted lay withered and dead. Time itself had petrified and here, in al-Andalus, we were already on the other side of hell. Perhaps I should pack my bags and return to the East…’

‘None of us would hold that against you,’ said Zuhayr. ‘You came here to study, but there is nothing to study except a void. You would be well advised to return to the university of al-Azhar.’

‘My friend is giving you sage advice,’ added Musa. ‘We are all now impotent. The only thing we can glory in is the vigour of our fathers.’

‘There I disagree,’ replied Zuhayr. ‘Only he who says “Behold, I am the man” not “My father or grandfather was” can be considered truly noble and courageous.’

The man with green eyes smiled.

‘I agree with Zuhayr bin Umar. Why should you who have been knights and kings desert your castles to the enemy and become mere pawns? Tear away the curtains of doubt and challenge the Christians. Cisneros imagines that you have no more fight left inside you. He will thrust you further and further towards the edge, and then with one last push he will watch you fall into the abyss.

‘I was told by friends in Balansiya that throughout the country the Inquisitors are preparing themselves to deliver the fatal blow. They will soon forbid us our language. Arabic will be banned on pain of death. They will not let us wear our clothes. There is talk that they will destroy every public bath in the country. They will prohibit our music, our wedding feasts, our religion. All this and more will fall on our heads in a few years’ time. Abu Abdullah let them take this town without a struggle. This was a mistake. It has made them too confident.’

‘What do you suggest, stranger?’ enquired Zuhayr.

‘We must not let them imagine that what they have done to us is acceptable. We must prepare an insurrection.’

For a minute nothing stirred. They were all frozen by his words. Only the sound of water flowing through the hammam punctuated their thoughts and their fears. Then Musa directly challenged the young scholar from Egypt.

‘If I were convinced that an uprising against Cisneros and his devils would succeed and enable us to turn back even one page of history, I would be the first to sacrifice my life, but I remain unconvinced by your honeyed words. What you are proposing is a grand gesture that will be remembered in the times which lie ahead. Why? What for? What good will come of it in the end? Gestures and grand words have been the curse of our religion, from the very beginning.’

Nobody responded to his objections and Musa, feeling that he now had the advantage over the Qahirene, pressed his arguments further.

‘The Christians hunt different beasts in different ways and during different seasons, but they have begun to hunt us the whole year round. I agree we must not let our lives become distorted with fear, but nor should we sacrifice ourselves unnecessarily. We have to learn from the Jews how to live in conditions of great hardship. The followers of Islam still live in Balansiya, do they not? Even in Aragon? Listen friends, I am not in favour of any foolishness.’

Zuhayr spoke angrily to his friend.

‘Would you convert to Christianity, Musa, just in order to live?’

‘Have not Jews done so throughout the land in order to retain their positions? Why should we not imitate them? Let them tighten the screws as much as they like. We will learn new methods of resistance. Here in our heads.’

‘Without our language or our books of learning?’ asked the great-grandson of Ibn Khaldun.

Musa looked at him and sighed. ‘Is it true that you are in the line of the master Ibn Khaldun?’

Ibn Daud smiled and nodded his head.

‘Surely,’ continued Musa, ‘you must know better than us the warning your noble forebear directed against men such as yourself. Scholars are of all men those least fitted for politics and its ways.’

Ibn Daud grinned mischievously. ‘Perhaps Ibn Khaldun was referring to his own experiences which were less than happy. But surely, however great a philosopher he may have been, we must not treat him as a prophet whose word is sacred. The question which confronts you is simple. How should we defend our past and our future against these barbarians? If you have a more efficient solution, pray speak your mind and convince me.’

‘I do not have all the answers, my friend, but I know that what you are recommending is wrong.’

With these words Musa got out of the bath and clapped his hands. Attendants rushed in with towels and began to dry his body. The others followed suit. Then they repaired to the adjoining chamber, where their servants were waiting with new robes. Before departing, Musa embraced Zuhayr and whispered in his ear: ‘Poison finds its way into even the sweetest cups of wine.’

Zuhayr did not take his friend too seriously. He knew the pressures of everyday life on Musa, and he understood, but that was not sufficient reason for cowardice at a time when everything was at stake. Zuhayr did not wish to quarrel with his friend, but nor could he keep silent and conceal his own thoughts. He turned to the stranger.

‘By what name are we to call you?’

‘Ibn Daud al-Misri.’

‘I would like to talk with you further. Why do we not return to your lodgings? I will help you pack your bags and then find you a horse to ride back with me to al-Hudayl. Trust in Allah. You might even find some of Ibn Khaldun’s manuscripts in our library! You do ride?’

‘That is very kind of you. I accept your hospitality with pleasure and, yes, I do ride.’

To the rest of the party Zuhayr issued a more general invitation. ‘Let us meet in my village in three days’ time. Then we will make our plans and discuss the methods of their execution. Is that agreed?’

‘Why not stay the night and we can talk now?’ asked Haroun bin Mohammed.

‘Because my father is in town and has pressed me to spend the night at my uncle’s house. I pleaded a desire to return home. It would be unwise to deceive him so openly. Three days?’

An agreement was reached. Zuhayr took Ibn Daud by the arm and escorted him to the street outside. They walked briskly to the lodging house, collected Ibn Daud’s belongings and then repaired to the stables. Zuhayr borrowed one of his uncle’s horses for his new friend and before Ibn Daud had time to recover from the suddenness of the proceedings, they were on their way to al-Hudayl.

Zuhayr’s uncle, Ibn Hisham, lived in a handsome town house, five minutes away from the Bab al-Ramla. The entrance to the house was no different from those of the other private dwellings on the street, but if one were to pause and look closely to either side it would become clear that the two adjoining entrances were in fact non-existent. False doors inlaid with turquoise tiles were designed to deceive. No stranger could imagine that what lay beyond the latticed doorways was a medium-sized palace. An underground passage beneath the street connected the different wings of the mansion and also served as an escape route to the Bab al-Ramla. Merchants did not take risks.

It was to this small palace that Umar bin Abdallah had repaired after his unsatisfactory exchange earlier that day with the Captain-General of Gharnata.

Ibn Hisham and Umar were cousins. Ibn Hisham’s father, Hisham al-Zaid, was the son of Ibn Farid’s sister. He had settled in Gharnata after the death of his uncle Ibn Farid, who had been his guardian since the early death of his parents, killed by bandits during a journey to Ishbiliya. While rising to become the chief economic adviser to the Sultan in the al-Hamra, he had utilized his position and talents to build his own fortune. In the absence of any rivalry over the property in al-Hudayl, the relationships between the two cousins had been warm and friendly. After the premature demise of Umar’s father, it had been his uncle Hisham al-Zaid who had stepped in and helped his nephew get over the emotional loss. More importantly he had also taught Umar the art of running an estate, explaining the difference between trade in the towns and land cultivation in the following words:

‘For us in Gharnata it is the goods we sell and exchange which matter most. Here in al-Hudayl what is crucial is your ability to communicate with the peasants and understand their needs. In the olden days the peasants were united to Ibn Farid and his grandfather through war. They fought under the same banner. That was important. Times have changed. Unlike the goods we buy or sell, your peasants can think and act. If you remember this simple fact you should not have any serious trouble.’

Hisham al-Zaid had died one year after the fall of the city. He had never known any disease, and the talk in the market ascribed his death to a broken heart. This may have been so, but it was also the case that he had celebrated his eightieth birthday some weeks before his departure.

Ever since his return from the al-Hamra, Umar had been in a dejected state of mind. He had bathed and rested, but his silence during the evening meal had weighed on everyone present. Ibn Hisham’s offer to send for some dancing girls and a flask of wine had been abruptly refused. Umar could not understand how his cousin’s family was in such good humour. It was true that people grew accustomed to adversity, but his instincts detected that there was something else at work. When he had told them about his meeting with Don Inigo they had refrained from expressing an opinion. Ibn Hisham and his wife Muneeza had exchanged strange looks when he had poured scorn on the Captain-General’s suggestion that every Muslim should convert immediately to Christianity. It was, Umar felt, as if they were being pulled away from him by hidden currents. Now, as the two men sat on the floor facing each other, they found themselves alone for the first time since his arrival. Umar was on the verge of an explosion.

He had barely opened his mouth when a loud knock sounded on the door. Umar saw Ibn Hisham’s face grow tight. He paused for the servant to come and announce the new arrival. Perhaps Don Inigo had had a change of heart and had sent a messenger asking him to return post-haste to the al-Hamra. Instead of the servant, however, a familiar robed figure entered the room. Suddenly everything became clear to Umar.

‘My Lord Bishop. I had no idea you were in Gharnata.’

The old man signalled for a chair, and took his seat. Umar began to pace up and down. Then his uncle spoke in a voice which was in marked contrast to his infirm appearance.

‘Sit down, nephew. I was fully aware that you were in Gharnata today. That is why I am here. Fortunately the son of my late cousin Hisham al-Zaid, may he rest in peace, has more sense than you. What ails you, Umar? Is the headship of the Banu Hudayl so great a burden that you have lost the use of your mind? Did I not tell you when they burnt the books that it would not stop at that? Did I not try and warn you of the consequences of clinging blindly to a faith whose time in this peninsula is over.’

Umar was boiling with rage.

‘Over is it, Uncle? Why don’t you lift your beautiful purple gown for a minute? Let us inspect your penis. I think we might discover that a tiny bit of skin has been removed. Why did you not cling on blindly to that piece of skin, Uncle? Nor were you shy of using the implement itself. Your son Juan is how old? Twenty? Born five years after you became a priest! What happened to his mother, our unknown aunt? Did they force her to leave the convent, or did the Mother Superior double as a midwife in her spare time? When did you see the light, Uncle?’

‘Stop this, Umar!’ his cousin shouted. ‘What is the use of all this talk? The Bishop is only trying to help us.’

‘I am not angry with you, Umar bin Abdallah. I like your spirit — it reminds me very much of my own father. But there is a law for those who engage in politics. They must pay some attention to the real world and what goes on there. Every circumstance that accompanies and succeeds an event must be studied in detail. That is what I learnt from my tutor, when I was Yazid’s age. We used to have our lessons in that courtyard through which the water flows and which your family loves so much. It was always in the afternoon, when it was drenched in sunshine.

‘I was taught never to base my views on speculation, but to make my thoughts conform to the realities that existed in the world outside. It was impossible for Gharnata to continue its existence. An Islamic oasis in a Christian desert. That is what you said to me three months before the surrender. Do you recall my reply?’

‘Only too well,’ muttered Umar, mimicking the old man. ‘“If what you say is true, Umar bin Abdallah, then it cannot go on like this. The oasis must be captured by the warriors of the desert.” Yes, Uncle. I remember. Tell me something…’

‘No! You tell me something. Do you want our family estates to be confiscated? Do you want Zuhayr and yourself killed, Zubayda and the girls annexed to form part of your murderer’s household, Yazid enslaved by some priest and misused as an altar boy? Answer me!’

Umar was trembling. He sipped some water and just stared at Miguel.

‘Well?’ the Bishop of Qurtuba continued. ‘Why do you not speak? There is still time. That is why I used all my powers of persuasion to organize your meeting in the al-Hamra this morning. That is why I have persuaded Cisneros to come and perform the baptisms in the village. That is the only road to survival, my boy. Do you think I converted and became a Bishop because I saw a vision? The only vision I saw was of the destruction of our family. My decision was determined by politics, not religion.’

‘And yet,’ said Umar, ‘the Bishop’s gown sits easily on you. It’s as if you had worn it since birth.’

‘Mock as much as you like, my nephew, but make the right decision. Remember what the Prophet once said: Trust in God, but tether your camel first. I will give you another piece of information, though if it were to become known the Inquisition would demand my head. I still make my ablutions and bow before Mecca every Friday.’

Both Miguel’s nephews were startled, which made him chuckle.

‘In primitive times one must learn the art of being primitive. That is why I joined the Church of Rome, even though I still remain convinced that our way of seeing the world is much closer to the truth. I ask you to do the same. Your cousin and his family have already agreed. I will baptize them myself tomorrow. Why do you not stay and observe the ceremony? It is over before you can say…’

‘There is no Allah but Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet?’

‘Exactly. You can carry on saying that to yourself every day.’

‘Better to die free than live like a slave.’

‘It is stupidity of this very sort which led to the defeat of your faith in this peninsula.’

Umar looked at his cousin, but Ibn Hisham averted his face.

‘Why?’ Umar shouted at him. ‘Why did you not tell me? It is like being stabbed in the heart.’

Ibn Hisham looked up. Tears were pouring down his face. How strange, thought Umar, as he saw the distress on his cousin’s face, when we were young his will was stronger than mine. I suppose it is his new responsibilities, but I have mine and they are greater. For him it is his business, his trade, his family. For me it is the lives of two thousand human beings. And yet the sight of his cousin saddened Umar, and his own eyes filled with tears.

For a moment, as they looked at each other, their eyes heavy with sorrow, Miguel was reminded of their youth. The two boys had been inseparable. This friendship had continued long after they were married. But as they grew older and became absorbed in the cares of their own families, they saw less of each other. The distance between the family home in the village and Ibn Hisham’s dwelling in Gharnata seemed to grow. Yet still, when they met, the two cousins exchanged confidences, discussed their families, their wealth, their future and, naturally, the changes taking place in their world. Ibn Hisham had felt great pain at concealing his decision to convert from Umar. It was the most important moment of his life. He felt that what he was about to do would ensure protection and stability for his children and their children.

Ibn Hisham was a wealthy merchant. He prided himself on his ability to judge human character. He could smell the mood of the city. His decision to become a Christian was on the same level as the decision he had taken thirty years ago to put all his gold into importing brocades from Samarkand. Within a year he had trebled his wealth.

He had no wish to deceive Umar, but he was frightened that his cousin, whose intellectual stubbornness and moral rigour had always inspired a mixture of respect and fear in their extended family, would convince him that he was wrong. Ibn Hisham did not wish to be so persuaded. He confessed all this, hoping that Umar would understand and forgive, but Umar continued to stare at him in anger and Ibn Hisham suddenly felt the temperature of those eyes pierce his head. In the space of a few minutes the gulf between the two men had grown so wide that they were incapable of speaking to each other.

It was Miguel who finally broke the silence. ‘I will come to al-Hudayl tomorrow.’

‘Why?’

‘Are you denying me the right to enter the house where I was born? I simply wish to see my sister. I will not intrude in your life.’

Umar realized that he was in danger of consigning the family code to oblivion. This could not be done and he retreated straight away. He knew that Miguel was determined to speak to Zubayda and convince her of the necessity of conversions. The old rogue thought she might be easier to convince of his nefarious plans. Old devil. He is as transparent as glass.

‘Forgive me, Uncle. My mind was on other matters. You are welcome as always to your home. We shall ride back together at sunrise. Pardon me, I had forgotten you have a baptism to perform. You will have to make your own way, I’m afraid. Now I have a favour to ask of you.’

‘Speak,’ said the Bishop of Qurtuba.

‘I would like to be alone with my uncle’s son.’

Miguel smiled and rose. Ibn Hisham clapped his hands. A servant entered with a lamp and escorted the cleric to his chamber. Both of them felt more relaxed in his absence. Umar looked at his friend, but his eyes were distant. Anger had given way to sorrow and resignation. Foreseeing their separation, which could well be permanent, Ibn Hisham stretched out his hand. Umar clasped it for a second and then let it drop. The grief felt by both of them went so deep that they did not feel the need to say a great deal to each other.

‘Just in case you had any doubts,’ Ibn Hisham began, ‘I want you to know that my reasons have nothing to do with religion.’

‘That is what saddens me deeply. If you had converted genuinely I would have argued and felt sad, but there would have been no anger. No bitterness. But do not worry, I will not even attempt to change your mind. Has the rest of the family accepted your decision?’

Ibn Hisham nodded.

‘I wish time would stop forever.’

Umar laughed out aloud at this remark, and Ibn Hisham flinched. It was a strange laugh like a distant echo.

‘We have just come through one disaster,’ said Umar, ‘and are on the edge of another.’

‘Could anything be worse than what we have just experienced, Umar? They set our culture on fire. Nothing more they can do has the power to hurt me. Being tied to a stake and stoned to death would be a relief by comparison.’

‘Is that why you decided to convert?’

‘No, a thousand times no. It was for my family. For their future.’

‘When I think of the future,’ Umar confessed, ‘I no longer see the deep blue sky. There is no more clarity. All I see is a thick mist, a primal darkness enveloping us all, and in the distant layer of my dreams I recognize the beckoning shores of Africa. I must rest now and say farewell. For tomorrow I will leave before all of you are out of bed.’

‘How can you be so cruel? We will all be up for the morning prayers.’

‘Even on the day of your baptism?’

‘Especially on that day.’

‘Till the morning then. Peace be upon you.’

‘Peace be upon you.’

Ibn Hisham paused for a moment.

‘Umar?’

‘Yes.’

He moved quickly and embraced Umar, who remained passive, his arms by his side. Then as his cousin began to weep again, Umar hugged him and held him tight. They kissed each other’s cheeks and Ibn Hisham led Umar to his room. It was a chamber reserved exclusively for the use of Umar bin Abdallah.

Umar could not sleep. His head was alive with anxious voices. The fatal poison was spreading every day. Despite his public display of firmness, he was racked with uncertainties. Was it fair to expose his children to decades of torture, exile and even death? What right had he to impose his choice on them? Had he raised children only to hand them over to the executioners?

His head began to roar like the noise of an underground river. The savage torments of memory. He was mourning for the forgotten years. The springtime of his life. Ibn Hisham had been with him when he first saw Zubayda, a cape round her shoulders, wandering like a lost soul in the gardens near the al-Hamra. As long as he lived he would never forget that scene. A ray of sunlight had filtered through the foliage to turn her red hair to gold. What struck him at once was her freshness — not a trace of the voluptuous indolence that marred so many of the women in his family. Entranced by her beauty, he had been rooted to the spot. He wanted to go and touch her hair, to hear her speak, to see how the shape of her eyes might alter when she smiled, but he controlled himself. It was forbidden to pluck ripening apricots. On his own he might have let her go and never seen her again. It was Ibn Hisham who had given him the courage to approach her and, in the months that followed, it was Ibn Hisham who kept watch over their clandestine trysts.

Both sides of the pillow were warm when Umar finally fell asleep. His last conscious thought had been a determination to rise well before dawn and ride back to al-Hudayl. He was not prepared for the emotional upheaval of a second parting. He did not want to see the helpless eyes of his friend pleading silently for mercy.

And there was another reason. He wanted to relive the journeys of his lost youth: to ride home in the cleansing air, far removed from the reality of Miguel’s sordid baptisms; to feel the first rays of the morning sun, deflected by the mountain peaks; and to feast his eyes on the inexhaustible reserves of blue skies. Just before sleep finally overpowered him, Umar had a strong sensation that he would not see Ibn Hisham again.