Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree (31 page)

‘Do not waste your youth in mindless endeavours, Zuhayr. History has passed us by. Why can you not accept it?’

‘I will not lie back and passively accept the outrages they wish to impose on us. They are barbarians and barbarians have to be resisted. Better to die than become slaves of their Church.’

‘I have learnt something new in these last few months,’ Ibn Hisham confided. ‘In this new world which we inhabit there is also a new way of dying. In the old days we killed each other. The enemy killed us and it was over. But I have learnt that total indifference can be just as cruel a death as succumbing to a knight in armour.’

‘But you who always had so many friends ...’

‘They have all gone their separate ways. If we went by appearances alone it would seem that individuals can effortlessly survive cataclysms of the sort that we are experiencing, but life is always more complex. Everything changes inside ourselves. I converted for selfish reasons, but it has made me even more estranged. I work amongst them, but, however hard I try, I can never be of them.’

‘And I thought that in our entire family, only I understood what loneliness really meant.’

‘One must not complain. I have the most patient friends in the world. I talk most often these days to them. The stones in the courtyard.’

The two men rose and Zuhayr embraced his uncle in farewell.

‘I’m glad I came to see you, Uncle. I will never forget this meeting.’

‘I fear it may have been our last supper.’

Zuhayr lay in his bed and reviewed the events of the day. How brutally the Count had deflated their hopes. The Archbishop had won. Cunning, tenacious Cisneros. The city now belonged to him and he would destroy it from within. Kill the spirit of the Gharnatinos. Make them feel ugly and mediocre. That would be the end of Gharnata. Far better to raze it to the ground, leaving only that which existed at the beginning: a lovely plain, furrowed by streams and clothed in trees. It was the beauty which had attracted his ancestors. And it was here that they had built this city.

His thoughts wandered to the evening spent with his uncle. Zuhayr had been surprised by Hisham’s bitterness and abjection, but it had also comforted him a great deal. If his uncle Hisham, a man of great wealth and intelligence, could find no satisfaction in becoming a Christian, then he, Zuhayr, was justified in the course he had chosen. What use was the opulence and splendour if inside yourself you were permanently poverty-stricken and miserable?

That night Zuhayr was disturbed by a dream. He woke up in a sweat, trembling. He had seen the house in al-Hudayl swathed by a tent of white muslin. Yazid, the only one he could recognize, was laughing, but not as Zuhayr remembered him. It was the laugh of an old man. He was surrounded by giant chess pieces which had come to life and were talking in a strange language. Slowly, they moved towards Yazid and began to throttle him. The eerie laughter turned into a rattle.

Zuhayr lay there shivering. Sleep would not return. He stayed in the bed, wide awake, huddled in his quilt, desperately awaiting the first noises which come with the dawn.

‘There is only one Allah and it is Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet!’

The same words. The same rhythm. Eight different voices. Eight echoes competing with each other. Eight mosques for the faithful today. And tomorrow? Zuhayr was already dressed. In the giant courtyard below he could already hear the sound of hoofs. His steed was saddled and a stable-boy, not much older than Yazid, was feeding it a lump of raw brown sugar. More hoofs entered the yard. He heard the voices of Ibn Basit and Ibn Amin.

They rode out of the Funduq, through the tiny streets, in the livid light of dawn, just as Gharnata was beginning to come to life. Doors were opening as groups of men made haste to their mosques. As they passed some open doors, Zuhayr could see people busy at their ablutions, trying to wash away the cumulative stench of sleep.

The city was no longer deserted, as it had been when Zuhayr had walked to the Funduq from his uncle’s establishment late last night but it was immersed in despair. Ibn Basit could not recall a time when so many people had hurried to attend morning prayers.

Before the Reconquest it was the Friday afternoon prayers which had attracted the largest crowd—a social and political as well as a religious occasion. More often than not, the Imam would discuss political and military matters, leaving religion for those weeks when nothing else was happening. The mood was usually relaxed, in sharp contrast to the subdued silences of the people today.

‘Zuhayr al-Fahl,’ said Ibn Amin in an excited voice. ‘Ibn Basit and I have two gifts to deliver at the al-Hamra. Would you care to ride there with us? The others are waiting outside the city. The Forty have become the Three Hundred!’

‘What gifts?’ asked Zuhayr, who had noticed the exquisite wooden boxes sealed with silken ribbons. ‘The stench of perfume is overpowering.’

‘One box is for Ximenes,’ replied Ibn Basit, trying very hard to keep a serious face, ‘and the other is for the Count. It is a farewell present which these grandees will never forget.’

Zuhayr regarded the gesture as unnecessary. It was taking chivalry to an absurd degree, but he agreed to accompany them. Within a few minutes they were at the gates of the palace.

‘Stop where you are!’ Two young soldiers drew their swords and rushed towards them. ‘What is your business?’

‘My name is Ibn Amin. Yesterday the Captain-General visited us in the city and invited us to have breakfast with him this morning. He made some requests and wanted our reply by this morning. We have brought a gift for him and for His Grace the Archbishop of Toledo. Unfortunately we cannot stay. Will you please convey our apologies and make sure that these gifts, a small token of our esteem, are delivered to the two gentlemen, the minute they have arisen.’

The soldiers relaxed and accepted the gifts in good humour. The young men turned their horses and galloped away to join their fellow fighters, where they had gathered just outside the city. Soldiers at the gate watched with grim faces as they passed through.

Three hundred armed men on horseback, most of them not yet twenty, cannot be expected to remain silent on the edge of change. There were screams, whisperings and excited laughter. The mountain air was chilly and both men and horses were swathed in steam. Anxious mothers, huddled in their shawls, were saying their farewells beneath the walls. Zuhayr frowned at the din, but his mood changed as he neared his troops. They were a magnificent sight, a sign that the Moors of Gharnata had not abandoned hope. As the three friends rode up to the assembled company, they were greeted by excited cries and a warm welcome. All were aware of the dangers that faced them, but despite that knowledge, spirits were high.

‘Did you deliver the presents?’ asked Ibn Wahab as they were leaving the city behind.

Ibn Amin nodded and laughed.

‘In the name of Allah,’ asked Zuhayr, ‘what is the joke?’

‘You really want to know?’ teased Ibn Basit. ‘Ibn Amin, you tell him.’

The son of the Count’s personal physician laughed so much at this suggestion that Zuhayr thought he would choke.

‘The stench of perfume! Your nose detected our crime,’ began Ibn Amin after he had calmed down. ‘In both those boxes, disguised by the attar of roses, is a rare delicacy for the consumption of the Archbishop and the Count. It has edible silver paper transferred on to its surface. What we have left them, Zuhayr al-Fahl, is a piece of our excrement. One, freshly delivered this morning from the bowels of this Jew you see before you, and the other, a somewhat staler offering, from the insides of a devout Moor, known to you as Ibn Basit. This fact, without mentioning our actual names, of course is made clear in a note addressed to both of them, in which we also express the hope that they will enjoy their breakfast.’

It was too childish for words. Zuhayr tried his best not to laugh, but found it increasingly difficult to contain himself. He began to guffaw uncontrollably. It did not take long for word of the prank to spread to the entire group. Within a few minutes the gallant three hundred were engulfed by a wave of laughter.

‘And to think as I did,’ said Zuhayr, as he tried to calm himself down, ‘that you were being far too sentimental and chivalrous.’ This made his friends laugh again.

They rode on for a few hours. The sun had risen. There was no wind at all. Capes and blankets were discarded and handed to the hundred or so servants who were attending their masters. It was after they had been riding for over two hours that they observed a small group of horsemen riding towards them.

‘Allahu Akbar! God is Great!’ shouted Zuhayr, and the chant was repeated by the young men of Gharnata.

There was no reply from the horsemen. Zuhayr ordered his troop to halt, fearing an ambush. It was when the horsemen drew close that Zuhayr recognized them. His spirits rose considerably.

‘Abu Zaid al-Ma’ari!’ he shouted with pleasure. ‘Peace be upon you! You see I followed your advice after all and brought some other friends along.’

‘I am happy to see you, Zuhayr bin Umar. I knew you were headed this way. You had better follow us and get away from this particular track. It is too well known, and by this time there will already be soldiers on your tail, trying to determine where you will camp for the night.’

Zuhayr told him about the gifts they had left behind for the Count and the Archbishop. To his surprise Abu Zaid did not laugh.

‘You have done something very stupid, my friends. The kitchen in the al-Hamra is probably enjoying your joke, but they are the least powerful people in the palace. You have united the Count and the Confessor. A gift to the priest would have been sufficient. It might even have amused the Count and delayed the offensive. Did you really think that you were the first to have thought of such an insult? Others like you, all over al-Andalus, have executed similar pieces of folly. It is getting late. Let us get out of this district as soon as possible.’

Zuhayr smiled to himself. He was a courageous young man, but not completely bereft of intelligence. He knew that his capacities did not extend to leading an irregular mountain army. Abu Zaid’s presence had relieved his burden considerably.

As they rode the day was in full progress and the sun, unfiltered by even a single cloud, was warming the earth, whose scented dust they inhaled as they climbed the mountain. Ahead of them there lay an irredeemable landscape.

Later that afternoon, al-Zindiq delivered Zuhayr’s letter to Umar and described the events of the last two days. He was heard in silence. Even Yazid did not ask questions. When the old man had finished, Ama was weeping loudly.

‘It is the end,’ she wailed. ‘Everything is over.’

‘But Ama,’ replied Yazid, ‘Zuhayr is alive and well. They have begun a
jihad.
That should make you happy, not sad. Why do you cry like this?’

‘Please do not ask me, Ibn Umar. Do not torment an old woman.’

Zubayda signalled to Yazid that he should follow her and Umar out of the room. When Ama saw that she was left alone with al-Zindiq she wiped her tears and began to question him about the details of Zuhayr’s appearance that morning.

‘Was he wearing a rich blue turban with a crescent made of gold?’

Al-Zindiq nodded.

‘That is how I saw him in my dream last night.’

Al-Zindiq’s tone was very soft. ‘Dreams tell us more about ourselves, Amira.’

‘You do not understand me, you old fool,’ Ama retorted angrily. ‘In my dream Zuhayr’s head wore that turban, but the head was lying on the ground, covered in blood. There was no body.’

Al-Zindiq thought she was about to cry again, but instead her face turned grey and her breathing grew loud and irregular. He gave her some water and helped her back to her room, a tiny chamber where she had spent most of her nights for over half a century. She lay down and al-Zindiq covered her with a blanket. He thought of their past, of words left half-spoken, self-deceptions, the pain he had caused her by falling in love with Zahra. He felt that he had been the ruin of Ama’s life.

Instinctively, the old woman read his thoughts.

‘I don’t regret for a single moment the life that I have lived here.’

He smiled sadly. ‘Somewhere else you could have been your own mistress, beholden to no one but yourself.’

She stared up at him with a plea in her eyes.

‘I have wasted my life, Amira,’ he said. ‘This house has cursed me forever. I wish I had never set foot in its courtyard. That is the truth.’

Suddenly she saw him at eighteen, with thick black hair and his eyes full of laughter. The memory was enough.

‘Go now,’ she told him, ‘and let me die in peace.’

For al-Zindiq the very thought of dying quietly, passing on without a last scream of outrage, was unthinkable and he told her so.

‘It is the only way I know,’ she replied as she clutched her beads. ‘Trust in Allah.’

Ama did not die that day or the next. She lingered for a week, making her farewells at her own pace. She kissed Umar’s hand and dried Yazid’s tears, told Zubayda of her fears for the family and pleaded with her to take the children away. She remained calm except when she asked Umar to remember her to Zuhayr.

‘Who will make him his heavenly mixtures when I am gone?’ she wept.

Ama died in her sleep three days after Zuhayr’s flight from Gharnata. She was buried near Zahra in the family graveyard. Yazid grieved for her in secret. He felt that as he was approaching manhood he should be brave, and not display his emotions in public.

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

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

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

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