Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree (30 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Are you the son of Umar bin Abdallah?’

Zuhayr nodded.

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

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

Don Inigo moved on till he sighted Ibn Amin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Zuhayr bin Umar, may Allah protect you.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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