Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

Chapter 6

‘DWARF, WHEN I GROW up I want to be a cook, just like you.’

The chief cook, who was sitting over a giant pan grinding a concoction of meat, pulses and wheat with a large wooden pestle, looked at the young boy sitting directly opposite him on a tiny stool and smiled.

‘Yazid bin Umar,’ he said, as he carried on pounding the meat, ‘it is very hard work. You have to learn how to cook hundreds of dishes before anyone will employ you.’

‘I will learn, Dwarf. I promise.’

‘How often have you had harrissa?’

‘Hundreds and thousand of times.’

‘Exactly so, young master, but do you know how it is cooked or what ingredients are used to flavour the meat? No, you do not! There are over sixty recipes for this dish alone. I cook it in the style recommended by the great teacher al-Baghdadi, but using herbs and spices of my own choice.’

‘That’s not true. Ama told me that it was your father who taught you everything you know. She says he was the Sultan of cooks.’

‘And who taught him? That Ama of yours is getting too old. Just because she has known me since I was your age, she thinks I have no creative skills of my own. My father was certainly more inventive in the realm of sweets. His date and vermicelli mixture cooked in milk over a low heat to celebrate all the big weddings and festivals was famous throughout al-Andalus. The Sultan of Gharnata was here for your grandfather’s wedding. After tasting the dessert he wanted to take my father away to the al-Hamra, but Ibn Farid, may his soul rest in peace, said “Never.”

‘But in the kingdom of real food he was not as good a cook as my grandfather, and he knew that fact very well. You see, young master, a genius can never rely on the recipes of others. How many pinches of salt? How much pepper? Which herbs? It is not just a question of learning, though that is important, but of instinct. That is the only secret of our craft. It happens like this. You are beginning to cook a favourite dish and you realize that there are no onions in the kitchen. You grind some garlic, ginger, pomegranate seeds and pimentos into a paste and use them instead. Add a tiny cup of fermented grape juice and you have a brand-new dish. The Lady Zubayda, whose generosity is known to all, tastes it when the evening meal is served. She is not deceived. Not even for a single moment. Straight away she realizes that it is something completely new. After the meal I am summoned to appear before her. She congratulates me and then questions me in some detail. Naturally I let her into my secret, but even as I am speaking to her I have forgotten the exact measures of the ingredients I have used. Perhaps I will never cook that dish again, but those who have tasted it once will never forget the unique blend of flavours. A truly good dish, like a great poem, can never be repeated exactly. If you want to be a cook, try and remember what I have just told you.’

Yazid was greatly impressed.

‘Dwarf? Do you think you’re a genius?’

‘Of course, young master. Why else would I be telling you all this? Look at the harrissa I am cooking. Come here and observe it carefully.’

Yazid moved his stool close to the cook and peered into the pan.

‘This has been cooking the whole night. In the old days they would only use lamb, but I have often used the meat of calves or chicken or beef, simply in order to vary the flavour. Otherwise your family would begin to get bored with my cooking, and that would upset me greatly.’

‘What have you put in this harrissa?’

‘The meat of a whole calf, three cups of rice, four cups containing the hearts of wheat, a cup of brown lentils, a cup of chickpeas. Then I filled the pan with water and let it cook overnight. But before I left the kitchen I put some dried coriander seeds and black cardamoms in a little muslin bag and lowered it into the pan. By the morning the meat had melted completely and now I am grinding it into a paste. But before I serve it for your Friday lunch, what else will I do?’

‘Fry some onions and chillies in clarified butter and pour them on the harrissa.’

‘Very good, young master! But the onions must be burnt and floating in the clarified butter. Perhaps next week I will add something to this dish. Perhaps a few eggs fried in butter and sprinkled with herbs and black pepper would mix well with harrissa, but it might be too heavy on the stomach just before Friday prayers. What if the pressure was so great that when they bowed their heads before Mecca the other end of their bodies began to emit a foul-smelling wind? That would not be appreciated by those directly in the line of fire.’

Yazid’s laughter was so infectious that it made the Dwarf grin. Then the boy’s face became very serious. A tiny frown appeared on the large forehead. The eyes became intense. A thought had crossed his head.

‘Dwarf?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t you sometimes wish that you were not a dwarf, but a big tall man, like Zuhayr? Then you could have been a knight instead of being in this kitchen all day?’

‘Bless your heart, Yazid bin Umar. Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, in the days when our Prophet, peace be upon him, was still alive, a monkey was caught pissing in a mosque.’

Yazid started giggling.

‘Please do not laugh. It was a very serious offence. The caretaker rushed up to the monkey and shouted: “You blaspheming rascal! Aren’t you frightened that God will punish and transform you into some other creature?” The monkey was unashamed. “It would only be a punishment,” replied the insolent creature, “if he were to turn me into a gazelle!” So you see, my dear young master, I would much rather be a dwarf creating wonderful dishes in your kitchen than a knight constantly in fear of being hunted by other knights.’

‘Yazid! Yazid! Where is that little rascal, Amira? Go and find him. Tell him I want to see him.’

Miguel’s voice echoed in the courtyard and reached the kitchen. Yazid looked at the Dwarf and put his finger on his lips. There was total quiet except for the bubbling of the two large pots containing stock from the bones of meat and game. Then he went and hid behind the platform which had been specially erected in the kitchen to enable the Dwarf to reach the pots and pans. It was no use. Ama walked in and marched straight to the hiding place.

‘Wa Allah! Come on out and greet your great-uncle. Your mother will be very angry if you forget your manners.’

Yazid re-emerged. The Dwarf’s face expressed sympathy.

‘Dwarf?’ asked the boy. ‘Why does Great-Uncle Miguel stink so much? Ama says…’

‘I know what Ama thinks, but we must have a more philosophical answer. You see, young master, any person who inserts himself between the onion and the peel is left with a strong smell.’

Ama glared at the cook and took Yazid by the hand. He broke loose and ran out of the kitchen towards the house. His plan was to avoid the courtyard altogether and try and hide in the bath-chamber by using the secret entrance from the side of the house. But Miguel was waiting for him, and the boy realized he had lost this battle.

‘Peace be upon you, Great-Uncle.’

‘Bless you, my child. I thought we might have a game of chess before lunch.’

Yazid cheered up immediately. In the past, whenever he had suggested a game, the adult world had resisted any incursions into their time and space. Miguel had barely spoken to him on his rare visits, let alone anything else. The boy rushed indoors and returned with his chess-set. He laid the chess-cloth on the table and carefully undid the box. Then, turning his back on the Bishop, he took a Queen in each hand and proffered his closed fists to his great-uncle. Miguel chose the fist which concealed the black Queen. Yazid cursed under his breath. It was at this stage that Miguel noticed the peculiar character of the chess-set. He began to inspect the pieces closely. His voice was hoarse with fear when he spoke.

‘Where did you get this from?’

‘A birthday gift from my father.’

‘Who carved it for you?’

Juan the carpenter’s name was about to be revealed when Yazid remembered that the man sitting before him was a servant of the Church. A stray remark of Ama’s had lodged in his brain as a warning, and now the child’s introspective wisdom came into play.

‘I think it was a friend in Ishbiliya!’

‘Do not lie to me, boy. I have heard so many confessions in my life that I can tell by the inflections in a person’s tone whether or not he is telling the truth, and you are not. I want an answer.’

‘I thought you wanted to play chess.’

Miguel looked at the troubled face of this boy with the shining eyes who sat opposite him and he could not help recalling his own childhood. He had played chess in this very courtyard and on this same piece of cloth. On the three occasions he had played against a master from Qurtuba, Miguel remembered the whole family standing round the table watching with excitement as the master was defeated every time. Then the applause and laughter as his brother would hoist him into the air to celebrate. Most pleased of all was his mother, Asma. He shuddered at the memory and looked up to see Hind, Kulthum and the young visitor from Egypt, Ibn Daud, smiling at him. Hind had seen everything from a distance and had realized that Yazid was in some sort of trouble. It was not too difficult to deduce that this was connected with the chess pieces. Even in his reverie Miguel was clutching the black Queen in his hand.

‘Have you started the game, Yazid?’ she asked innocently.

‘He won’t play. He keeps calling me a liar.’

‘Shame on you, Great-Uncle Miguel,’ said Hind as she hugged her brother. ‘How can you be so cruel?’

Miguel turned towards her, his aquiline nose twitching slightly as a weak smile distorted his cheeks.

‘Who carved these pieces? Where are they from?’

‘Why, Ishbiliya, of course!’

Yazid looked at his sister in wonderment and then went and retrieved the black Queen from Miguel’s clutches. Hind laughed.

‘Play him, Great-Uncle Miguel. You might not win.’

Miguel looked at the boy. Yazid was no longer frightened. A mischievous glimmer had returned to his face. Despite himself the Bishop was once again reminded of his youth. These surroundings, this courtyard and a cheeky nine-year-old looking at him with a hint of insolence. Miguel was reminded of his own challenges to every Christian nobleman who called on his father. Often they succumbed, and how the whole household would celebrate his triumphs.

Strange how that world, so long dead for him, continued to exist in the old house. Miguel felt like playing Yazid after all. He was about to sit down, when Ama signalled that lunch had been served.

‘Did you wash your hands, Miguel?’ Zahra’s shrill voice took the family of Umar bin Abdallah by surprise, but her brother smiled as he looked at her. He knew that voice well.

‘I am not ten years old, Zahra.’

‘I don’t care whether you’re ten or ninety. Go and wash your hands.’

Yazid saw Hind trying to stop herself from laughing and began to giggle in an uncontrolled fashion. This reduced his sister to tears as she still held back her mirth. It was when Zubayda became infected that Miguel realized he had to act fast to stop the entire lunch from degenerating into a circus. He laughed feebly.

‘Amira! You heard Zahra. Come.’

Ama brought a container filled with water, and a young manservant carried in a basin, followed by a kitchen-boy holding a towel. Miguel washed his hands amidst a bemused silence. When he had finished his sister applauded.

‘It was the same when you were a boy. If I shut my eyes I can just hear your screams, with Umm Zaydun and your mother, bless her heart, soaping your head and your body, washing you thoroughly and then flinging you into the bath.’

Zuhayr tensed at this reference to the Lady Asma. He looked at Zahra and Miguel, but there was no trace of emotion. Miguel looked at his sister and nodded.

‘I am delighted to see you back in this house, sister.’

The midday meal was consumed with great passion. The Dwarf, eavesdropping as usual from the adjacent chamber, was satisfied with the level of praise. Compliments flew across the room like tame birds. The peak of perfection for the Dwarf was reached when both Miguel and Zahra spontaneously confirmed that his harrissa was infinitely superior to that prepared by his late and much-lamented father. Only then did the master-cuisinier retire to his kitchen at ease with his craft and the world.

‘I am told that you live in great style in the Bishop’s palace in Qurtuba, attended by priests and your fat son. Why, Miguel?’ Zahra asked her brother. ‘Why did it have to end like this for you?’

Miguel did not reply. Zuhayr studied them closely as they ate. Surely Zahra must know the real reason for Miguel’s decision to cut himself completely from the old ways. Then Umar announced that it was time for the men to depart. Ibn Daud, Yazid and Zuhayr sprang to their feet and excused themselves. They left the room to prepare themselves for the ride to the mosque and Friday prayers.

Zahra and Miguel washed their hands and moved to the courtyard, where a wooden platform covered with carpets had been placed for them to enjoy the winter sunshine. Ama brought a tray whose compartments contained almonds, walnuts, dates and raisins and placed it before them.

‘Allah be praised. It does my heart good to see both of you at home.’

‘Amira,’ instructed Miguel as he picked a date, removed its seed and replaced it with an almond, ‘please ask my niece to join us for a few minutes.’

Ama limped back in to the house as Zahra repeated her question.

‘Why, Miguel? Why?’

Miguel’s heart began to pound. His face, which had become so accustomed to concealing all emotions, suddenly filled with anguish.

‘You really don’t know, do you?’

Zahra shook her head. They saw Zubayda approaching, and what Miguel might or might not have told her remained buried in his heart.

‘Sit down my child,’ said Miguel. ‘I have something important to say to you, and it is best said while the men are away.’

Zubayda sat down next to him.

‘I am intrigued, Uncle Miguel. My ears await your message.’

‘It is your brain which I wish to address. Yazid’s chess-set is the most dangerous weapon you have in this house. If it were to be reported to the Archbishop in Gharnata he would inform the Inquisition, especially if it was carved in Ishbiliya.’

‘Who told you it was carved in Ishbiliya?’

‘Yazid and Hind.’

Zubayda was moved by the instinct of her children to protect Juan the carpenter. Living in the village had made her complacent, and her first reaction had been to tell Miguel the truth, but she paused for reflection and decided to follow the line laid down by Yazid.

‘They must know.’

‘You are a fool, Zubayda. I am not here to spy on my family. I want you to burn those chess pieces. They might cost the boy his life. In this beautiful village the music of the water lulls us into a world of dreams. It is easy, too easy, to become complacent. I used to think we would be safe here for all time to come. I was wrong. The world in which you were born is dead, my child. Sooner or later the winds which carry the seeds of our destruction will penetrate the mountains and reach this house. The children must be warned. They are impatient. Headstrong. In the eyes of that little boy I see my own defiance of long ago. Hind is a very intelligent girl. I understand why you don’t wish her to marry my Juan. Do not protest, Zubayda. I may be old, but I am not yet senile. In your place I would do the same. My motives were not the advancement of my son, but the safety of your children. And, I suppose, sentiment. Juan would marry in the family.’

Despite herself, for she found the Bishop repulsive, Zubayda was not unmoved. She knew that he spoke the truth.

‘Why do you not speak to all of them tonight, Uncle Miguel? It might have a deeper impact than anything I could say. Then we can discuss what to do with Yazid’s chess-set. The boy will be heart-broken.’

‘I will happily speak to you all tonight. That is, after all, the main reason for my visit.’

‘I thought you came to see me, Your Holiness. You crooked old stick!’ interjected Zahra, with a cackle.

Zubayda, observing the pair, was reminded of something her mother had once taught her as a child, and it made her laugh. The couple turned on her with fierce looks.

‘Share the joke this minute,’ demanded Zahra.

‘I cannot, Aunt. Do not compel me. It is too childish for words.’

‘Let us be the judges. We insist,’ said Miguel.

Zubayda looked at them and began to laugh again at the ridiculousness of it all, but she realized she had no choice but to speak.

‘It was the way Yazid’s great-aunt used the word holiness, I suppose. It reminded me of a childhood rhyme:

‘A fierce argument raged between the Needle and the Sieve;

Said the Needle: “You seem a mass of holes — how ever do you live?”

Replied the Sieve with a crafty smile: “That coloured thread

I see is not an ornament but passes through your head!”’

Zubayda saw their stern looks dissolve into laughter.

‘Was he the needle?’ asked Zahra.

Zubayda nodded.

‘And she the sieve?’ enquired Miguel.

Zubayda nodded again. For a moment they kept their balance and looked at each other in silence. Then a wave of laughter arose inside each of them but surfaced simultaneously.

As it subsided Ama, sitting underneath the pomegranate tree, felt tears trickling down her face. It was the first time Miguel had laughed in this house since the death of his mother.

The relaxed atmosphere in the courtyard of the old family house of the Banu Hudayl could not have been more different to the tension which gripped the village mosque that Friday. The prayers had passed off without incident, though Umar had been irritated on arrival to notice that despite his instructions to the contrary, half a dozen places in the front row had been kept for his family out of deference. In the early days people had stood and prayed where they could find a place. The true faith recognized no hierarchy. All were considered equal before God in the place of worship.

It had been Ibn Farid who insisted that the front row be kept empty for his family. He had been impressed by the Christian nobility’s practice of reserving special pews in church. He knew that such a practice was repugnant to Islam, but he had insisted nonetheless on some recognition of the Muslim aristocracy by the mosque.

Umar stood discreetly at the back with the Dwarf and other servants from the house, but Zuhayr and Yazid had been pushed to the front by helping hands, and they had dragged Ibn Daud with them.

The prayers were now over. A young, blue-eyed Imam, new to the village, began to prepare himself for the Friday sermon. His old predecessor had been a very learned theologian and greatly respected as a human being. The son of a poor peasant, he had studied at the madresseh in Gharnata, acquired a great deal of knowledge, but never forgotten his origins. His successor was in his late thirties. His rich brown beard emphasized the whiteness of his turban as well as his skin. He was slightly nervous as he waited for the congregation to settle down and for the non-Muslim latecomers to be accommodated. The Jewish and Christian members of the tiny village community were permitted to attend the meeting after the Friday prayers were over. Yazid was delighted to see Juan the carpenter and Ibn Hasd enter the precincts of the mosque. They were accompanied by an old man robed in dark red. Yazid wondered who this person could be and nudged his brother. Zuhayr recognized Wajid al-Zindiq and trembled slightly, but did not say anything.

Suddenly Yazid frowned. Ubaydallah, the much-feared steward of the al-Hudayl estates, had moved up and seated himself just behind Zuhayr. Ama had told Yazid so many odious tales about this man’s corruption and debauchery that they had instilled a blind hatred in the boy. The steward smiled at Zuhayr as they exchanged greetings. Yazid glowered in anger. He was desperate to talk to Juan and tell him that Great-Uncle Miguel had been asking questions about the chess-set, but Zuhayr frowned and put his heavy arm on the boy’s shoulder to stop him wriggling.

‘Behave with dignity and never forget that we are under the public gaze,’ he whispered angrily into Yazid’s ear. ‘The honour of the Banu Hudayl is at stake. Tomorrow we may have to lead these people in a war. They must never lose their respect for us.’

‘Rubbish,’ muttered Yazid under his breath, but before his brother could retaliate the preacher had coughed to clear his throat and then begun to speak.

‘In the name of Allah the beneficent, the merciful. Peace be upon you my brothers…’

He began to drone about the glories of al-Andalus and its Muslim rulers. He wanted there to be no doubt that the Islam which had existed in the Maghreb had been the only true Islam. The Umayyad Caliph of Qurtuba and his successors had defended the true faith as prescribed by the Prophet and his Companions. The Abbasids in Baghdad had been moral degenerates.

Yazid had heard talk like this in mosques ever since he had started attending Friday prayers. All the preachers reminded him of Ama, except that he could stop Ama with a question and divert her from all this lofty talk. That was impossible in the mosque.

Nor was Yazid the only member of the congregation to be distracted by the preacher’s performance. At the back of the mosque the veterans of the Friday congregation were beginning to whisper to each other. It was difficult not to feel sorry for the young man trying to impose his will on a gathering which was not kind to newcomers or beginners, and for that reason Umar bin Abdallah put his finger to his lips and glared at the offenders. There was silence. The encouragement was sufficient to free the man with the brown beard. He became fired with a new enthusiasm and departed from the text he had so painstakingly prepared, abandoning the quotations from the al-koran which he had spent half the night learning and rehearsing. Instead he gave voice to his real thoughts.

‘In the distance we can hear the solemn bells of their churches begin to ring with a tone so ominous that the noise eats my insides. They have already prepared our shrouds and it is for that reason that my heart is heavy, my spirit is oppressed and my mind is permanently troubled. It is only eight years since they conquered Gharnata, but so many Muslims already feel dead and dumb. Has the end of our world arrived? All the talk of our past glories is true, but what use are they to us now? How is it that we who held this peninsula in the palm of our hand have let it slip away?

‘Often I hear our elders speak of the even worse calamities which befell the Prophet, peace be upon him, and how he overcame all of them. This is, of course, true, but at that time his enemies had not understood correctly the impact of the true word. We are paying the price for having become a universal religion. The Christian kings are not frightened of us alone, but when they hear that the Sultan of Turkey is considering sending his fleet to help us, then they begin to tremble. That is where the danger lies and that is why, my brethren, I fear the worst. Ximenes confides to his intimates that the only way to defeat us is to destroy everything…’

Every word he spoke was heard in silence. Even Yazid, an extreme critic of confessional performances, was struck by the integrity of the preacher. It was obvious that he was speaking from the heart. His brother was less impressed. Zuhayr was irritated by the pessimistic note which had been struck. Was the man going to offer any solution to the problem or simply demoralize the congregation?

‘I think of our past. Our standards fluttering in the air. Our knights waiting for the command that will send them into the battle. I remember the stories we have all heard of our bravest of knights, Ibn Farid, may his soul rest in peace, challenging their warriors and slaying them all in the course of a day. I think of all this and pray to the Almighty for succour and support. If I were convinced that the Sultan in Istanbul would really dispatch his ships and soldiers I would willingly sacrifice every inch of this body to save our future. But, my brothers, I fear that all these hopes are empty. It is too late. We have only one solution. Trust in God!’

Zuhayr was frowning. To finish without an exhortation was an extremely unorthodox procedure at the best of times. Given the present situation it was an unheard-of abdication of a theologian’s duty. Perhaps he was pausing to think. No. He had finished. He had taken his place in the front row and sat down three places away from Yazid.

Usually the congregation broke up after the khutba, but on this particular Friday it was as if a paralysis had set in. Nobody moved. How long they would have remained still and silent is a matter for conjecture, but Umar bin Abdallah, realizing that some action was needed, stood up and, like a lone sentinel stationed on a mountain top, observed the landscape around him. No one followed his example. Instead they all moved in unison, as if rehearsed, to create a path for him. Slowly he walked along this corridor. When he reached the front he turned round and faced them all. Yazid looked up at his father, his eyes gleaming with expectation and pride. Zuhayr’s features were masked, but underneath his heart was beating rapidly.

For a moment Umar bin Abdallah was buried deep in reflection. He knew that at moments like this, when the sense of impending disaster hangs over a people, each word and every sentence acquires an exaggerated importance. For that reason everything has to be carefully chosen and the cadences united with the words. Rhetoric has its own laws and its own magic. This man who had grown up in the patterned tranquillity of the family estates, who had been bathed in water scented with the oil of orange blossoms, had been always surrounded by the delicate scent of mountain herbs and had, from his childhood, learnt the art of presiding over the lives of other men and women, understood what was expected of him.

The cellars of his memory were overflowing, but there was nothing there which could be raided to provide even the slightest degree of comfort to these people seated before him.

Umar began to speak. He recounted all that had been happening in Gharnata under the Christian occupation. He described the wall of fire in vivid detail, and as he spoke his eyes filled with tears, their grief shared by the congregation; he told of the fear which reigned in every Muslim household; he evoked the uncertainties which hung over the city like a dark mist. He reminded them that clouds were not shifted by the howls of dogs, that the Muslims of al-Andalus were like a river which was being re-channelled under the stern gaze of the Inquisition.

Umar spoke for an hour and they listened to every word. He could not by any means be described as an orator. His soft voice and modest style contrasted favourably with the noise made by many of the preachers, who sounded like hollow drums and whose recitation of the holy texts was accompanied by exaggerated mannerisms. These not only lost them the attention of their audiences after the first few minutes, but had the undesired effect of providing merriment for the benefit of Yazid and his friends.

Umar knew that he could not go on much longer with his litany of disasters. He had to suggest a course of action. As the leading notable of the village it was his duty, and yet he hesitated. For if the truth be told, Umar bin Abdallah was still not sure in which direction to take his people. He stopped speaking and let his eyes wander as they searched out the elders of the village. There was no help coming from that direction and so Umar decided that honesty was the only approach. He would trust them with his uncertainties.

‘My brothers, I have a confession to make. I have no way of communicating directly with our Creator. Like you I am lost, and so I have to tell you that there is no easy solution to all our problems. One of our greatest thinkers, the master Ibn Khaldun, warned us many years ago that a people which is defeated and subjugated by another soon disappears. Even after the fall of Qurtuba and Ishbiliya we did not learn anything. There is no excuse for falling into the same hole thrice. Those of us who, in the past, sought refuge in the Sultan’s shadow were fools because it quickly faded.

‘There are three ways out of the maze. The first is to do what many of our brethren have done elsewhere. To say to oneself that a sane enemy is better than an ignorant friend and convert to their religion, while in our hearts believing what we wish to believe. What do you think of such a solution?’

For a few seconds they were stunned. It was a dangerously heretical idea, and the village was so isolated from Gharnata, let alone the rest of the peninsula, that they could not follow his line of reasoning. They recovered rapidly and a spontaneous chant rose from the ground on which they sat and reached for the sky.

‘There is only one Allah and he is Allah and Mohammed is His Prophet.’

Umar’s eyes moistened. He nodded his head and, with a sad smile, addressed them once again.

‘I thought that would be your response, but I feel it is my duty to warn you that the Christian kings who now rule over us may not permit us the freedom to worship Allah for much longer. In any case the choice must be yours.

‘The second possibility is to resist any incursion on our lands and fight to the death. Your death. My death. The death of all of us and the dishonouring of our mothers, wives, sisters and daughters. It is an honourable choice, and if that is what you decide will fight alongside you, though I must be honest. I will send the women and children in my family to a safe refuge before the battle and I would advise you to do the same. What is your feeling on this matter? How many of you wish to die sword in hand?’

Once again they were silent, but this time without anger. The old men looked at each other. Then, from somewhere in the middle of the assembly, five young men stood up. In the front row Zuhayr al-Fahl jumped to his feet. The sight of the young master offering his life for the cause created a miniature sensation. A few dozen young men rose to their feet, but not Ibn Daud. His thoughts had wandered to Hind, whose infectious laughter was still ringing in his head. Yazid was torn between his father and his brother. He agonized for a few minutes and then stood up and clutched Zuhayr’s hand. This gesture, in particular, moved everyone present, but only a minority was on its feet. Umar was greatly relieved. Suicide was not a course that he favoured. He signalled to his sons that they should sit down and their followers followed suit. Umar cleared his throat.

‘The last option is to leave our lands and our homes in this village which our forefathers built when there was nothing but large rocks which covered the earth. It was they who cleared the ground. It was they who found the water and planted the seed. It was they who saw the earth yield a rich harvest. My heart tells me this is the worst of all choices, but my head warns that it may be the only way to preserve ourselves. It may not happen, but we should be mentally prepared to leave al-Hudayl.’

A half-scream in a choked voice interrupted Umar.

‘And go where? Where? Where?’

Umar sighed.

‘It is safer to climb the stairs step by step. I do not yet know the answer to your question. All I wish to do is to make it clear to you that the cost of believing in what we believe will involve sacrifices. The question we will have to ask ourselves is whether to live here as unbelievers or to find a place where we can worship Allah in peace. I have nothing more to say, but if any of you wish to speak and present us with a more acceptable choice then now is the time. Speak while your lips are free.’

With these words Umar sat down next to Yazid. He hugged his young son and kissed him on the head. Yazid clasped his father’s hand and held on to it, much as a drowning person grasps anything that is afloat.

Umar’s words had made a deep impression. For a while nobody spoke. Then Ibn Zaydun, who called himself Wajid al-Zindiq, rose in his place and enquired if he could speak his mind. Umar turned round and nodded vigorously. The older men present frowned and stroked their beards. They knew Ibn Zaydun as a sceptic who had poisoned a large number of young minds. But, they reasoned to themselves, this was a crisis and even heretics had a right to speak their minds. The voice, which was so familiar to Zuhayr al-Fahl, now began to crackle with indignation.

‘For twenty years I have tried to tell you that it was necessary to take precautions. That blind faith alone would not get us anywhere. You thought that the Sultans would last till the Day of Judgement. When I warned you that he who eats the Sultan’s soup ends up with his own lips on fire, you mocked me, denounced me as a heretic, an apostate, an unbeliever who had lost his mind.

‘And now it is too late. All the wells are poisoned. There is no more pure water in the whole of this peninsula. That is what Umar bin Abdallah has been trying to tell you for the last hour. Instead of looking to the future we Muslims have always turned to the past. We still sing songs of the time when our tents first rose in these valleys, when we united in a staunch defence of our creed, when our pure white banners returned from the battlefield a different colour, drenched in the blood of the enemy. And how many cups of wine were drained in this village alone to celebrate our victories.

‘After seventy years, I am tired of living. When death comes stumbling my way, like a night-blind camel, I will not move aside. Better to die in complete possession of my senses than be trampled on when my mind has already ceased to exist. And what holds true for an individual applies equally to a community…’

‘Old man!’ cried Zuhayr in agony. ‘What makes you think that we are ready to die?’

‘Zuhayr bin Umar,’ al-Zindiq replied with a steady voice. ‘I was speaking in symbols. The only way for you and your children and their children to survive in the lands now occupied by the Castilians is to accept that the religion of your fathers and their fathers is on the eve of its demise. Our shrouds have already been prepared.’

This remark annoyed the faithful. There were some angry faces as a familiar chant was hurled at the sceptic.

‘There is only one Allah and he is Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet.’

‘Yes,’ replied the old man. ‘That is what we have been saying for centuries but Queen Isabella and her Confessor do not agree with you. If you go on repeating this the Christians will tear open your hearts with straight and hard-shafted spears.’

‘Al-Zindiq,’ shouted Ibn Hasd from the back of the mosque. ‘Perhaps what you say is true, but in this village we have lived at peace for five hundred years. Jews have been tormented elsewhere, but never here. Christians have bathed in the same baths as Jews and Muslims. Might the Castilians not leave us alone if we do nothing to harm them?’

‘It is unlikely, my friend,’ replied the sage. ‘What is good for the liver is bad for the spleen. Their Archbishop will argue that if even one example is permitted to survive it will encourage others. After all if we are allowed to carry on as before on these estates, sooner or later, when other kings and queens, less given to violence, are on the throne, our existence might well encourage them to relax the restrictions against the followers of Hazrat Musa and Mohammed, may peace be upon him. They wish to leave nothing of us. That is all I wish to say. I thank you Umar bin Abdallah for letting my voice be heard.’

As al-Zindiq began to walk away, Umar put Yazid on his lap and beckoned the old man to sit by his side. As he settled down on the prayer rug, Umar whispered in his ear: ‘Come and eat with us tonight, Ibn Zaydun. My aunt wishes it so.’

For once al-Zindiq was taken by surprise as he held back his emotions and nodded silently. Then Umar rose once again.

‘If there is nobody else who wishes to speak, let us disperse, but remember that the choice is yours. You are free to do as you wish and I will help in any way I can. Peace be upon you.’

‘And peace be upon you,’ came the collective reply.

Then up rose the young preacher and recited a surá from the al-koran, which they all, including the Christians and Jews present, repeated after him. All that is except al-Zindiq.

‘Say: “O Unbelievers,

I worship not that which ye worship,

And ye worship not that which I worship,

Neither will I worship that which ye worship,

Nor will ye worship that which I worship.

Ye have your religion and I have my religion.”’

As the meeting dispersed, al-Zindiq muttered to himself: ‘The creator must have been suffering from indigestion on the day he dictated those lines. The rhythm is broken.’

Ibn Daud had overheard him and could not restrain a smile. ‘The punishment for apostasy is death.’

‘Yes,’ replied al-Zindiq, staring straight into the young man’s green eyes, ‘but no qadi alive would ever pass such a sentence today. Are you the one who calls himself the grandson of Ibn Khaldun?’

‘I am,’ replied Ibn Daud as they walked out of the mosque.

‘Strange,’ reflected al-Zindiq, ‘when all his family perished on the sea.’

‘He lived with another, my grandmother, in later years.’

‘Interesting. Perhaps we can discuss his work tonight? After supper?’

‘Zuhayr has told me that you have studied his books and much else besides. I have no desire to quarrel with you or compete with your knowledge. I myself am still at the stage of learning.’

Ibn Daud saluted his interlocutor and hurried to the spot where the horses had been tethered. He did not wish to keep his host waiting, but when he arrived he could only see Yazid and Zuhayr. The young boy was smiling. Zuhayr had a distant look on his face and frowned at Ibn Daud. He was angry with his new-found friend. In the hammam in Gharnata, Ibn Daud had fired their imaginations with his talk of an armed uprising against the occupiers. Here he had swayed with the wind. Zuhayr stared coldly at the Qahirene and wondered whether he believed in anything.

‘Where is your respected father?’ enquired the visitor, feeling slightly uneasy.

‘Attending to his business,’ snapped Zuhayr. ‘Are you ready?’

Umar had been surrounded by the elders of the village. They were anxious to discuss the future in much greater detail and in the privacy of a familiar house. It was for this reason that they had all repaired to the house of Ibn Hasd, the cobbler, where they were greeted with almond cakes and coffee, flavoured with cardamom seeds and sweetened with honey.

Zuhayr had been deeply disturbed by the events in the mosque. His anger was directed against himself. For the first time ever he had understood how grim the situation really was, and that there appeared to be no possibility of escape. Now he knew that any insurrection in Gharnata was doomed. He had learnt more from the looks of defeat and despair on the faces inside the mosque than from all the talk of Great-Uncle Miguel or Uncle Hisham, and yet… And yet everything had been planned. It was too late.

Zuhayr appeared to forget that a guest was riding by his side. He nudged his horse gently in the stomach and the creature responded by a sudden burst of speed, which took Yazid by surprise. At first he thought his brother was trying to race him back to the house.

‘Al-Fahl! Al-Fahl! Wait for me,’ he grinned, and was about to race after his brother, but Ibn Daud stopped him.

‘I cannot ride like your brother and I need a guide.’

Yazid sighed and reined in his horse. He had realized that Zuhayr wanted to be alone. Perhaps he had arranged to meet some of the young men who wanted to fight. Yazid understood that he had to take his brother’s place. Otherwise Ibn Daud might imagine that they were being deliberately discourteous.

‘I suppose I had better accompany you home. My sister Hind would never forgive me if you were lost!’

‘Your sister Hind?’

‘Yes! She’s in love with you.’