The new city, laid out in a roughly rectangular plan, stretched a mile and a half from east to west and almost two miles from north to south. Caliph Rahman III chose the name Madinat al-Zahra for his fairy tale like city. It meant "The Resplendent One," paradise on earth, and was intended as a modest precursor of the heaven awaiting all true believers of Islam.
Nonbelievers shared in the opulence of his earthly bliss. They were meant to. The liberal minded Caliph, following in the footsteps of his Umayyad predecessors, strove hard to maintain a multi-cultural meritocracy. Remain loyal--whether Muslim, Jew, Christian, or some other persuasion--and this magnificent world is yours to enjoy.
Above and behind Solomon's vantage point, the Caliph's magnificent white palace overlooked the city while dominating the upper terrace. White flags, gently waving above a comfortable cocoon protected by the new Alcazar, the Army headquarters with its strategically placed training ground and enormous stables, sailed high above clusters of luxurious Umayyad family villas and those of successful merchants and high ranking officials.
White flowers blossomed in unbroken rows of almond trees planted along the top of the mountain and their scented blossoms created a white carpet along the ground where they'd fallen. The effect was dazzling, luring the eye up past the bright, white buildings. The Umayyad family was obsessed with white and they had good reason to be. For this former Syrian family, the color signified distance and separation from Bagdad's ruling Abbasids, wearers of black clothing, flyers of black flags. Their bloody coup left Rahman I the sole survivor of Islam's second Caliphate family, eventual successors to the Prophet Mohammed. The Abbasids thrust the solitary young nobleman into exile along the shores of North Africa where destiny enticed him with an opportunity to seize power on the Iberian Peninsula.
The two families maintained an ambivalent relationship.
The Abbasids moved their center of operations from Damascus to Bagdad, transplanting the heart of Islam to the lands of ancient Mesopotamia and the Fertile Crescent. It was in Bagdad that the philosophical and scientific works of the Greeks were being collected and then translated into Arabic, thus preserving the learning of that ancient European culture for future generations. The Umayyads privately refused to recognize the Abbasid Caliphate's legitimacy, but remained hungry for the literary, artistic, and cultural influences of Bagdad.
Solomon had wanted to begin his interviews among these Umayyads and their villas in order to question Umar's wife, and then his brother; but, Umar's decaying body dictated his agenda. His first order of business was to go to the nephew's trysting place at the bottom of the mountain so he sought out his driver.
The one-time teamster, waiting patiently with gnarled hands and a receding hairline, made his living with the aid of a healthy Balearic mule and a well built, two-wheeled cart whose design harkened back to Roman times with eight-spoked radial wheels attached to a fixed, straight axle. Cart making was a lost art in the Arabian world where a nomadic culture, dependent upon the camel to transport goods, had little use for the technology. This was a strong indication that his driver was Ibero-Roman, a member of an indigenous older culture that intermixed with Romans over a six hundred year time span and a people who still used this mode of transportation in the numerous suburbs surrounding the walled city of Córdoba and in the wider streets al-Zahra, the Caliph's emergent city.
They began their descent, but the driver stopped the mule at a crossroads. A goods-laden caravan of North African camels impeded their progress so the old man halted his cart, allowing the procession to pass and turn up a service road. Solomon vented his displeasure because the slow pace of the heavily-burdened animals irritated him no end.
"Come on," he cried out. "I don't have time for this."
The driver, hearing his complaint and sensing his impatience, turned to assess him. The leathery, weather-beaten face, a result of decades spent outside in the blinding Andalusian sun, registered disbelief. The shrug of his shoulders and relaxed body language conveyed a what am I to do approach to the inconvenience.
He's surprised by my apparent lack of self-control, Solomon thought.
"Umar's body is decaying," he explained before realizing his driver had no idea what he was talking about.
As the caravan passed, and the cart's two wheels creaked back into motion, it began to dawn on Solomon why he'd been rushed out of Córdoba and thrust into an awaiting cart to answer a mysterious summons by the Foreign Minister. Horses would've been commandeered by the military in response to news of Umar's death. As a result of uncertainty, not knowing if the murder resulted from a personal attack, a political feud, family jealousy, or even the opening salvo of an invasion by rival Fatimids from North Africa, the Caliphate cavalry had been mustered into action and placed on high alert.
At that very moment, mounted troops were patrolling the streets of al-Zahra.
Chapter 4
Inside the luxurious villa of Umar abd-Rahman a cupola made of glass, surrounded by white stucco mortared over brick, brought morning light down into a well-maintained reception area. The walls stood painted a soothing aquamarine; but, at that moment in time nothing could bring peace to the two individuals who stood facing each other. Gold lettering, an elegant calligraphy rendered in Arabic script along the surface of these aquamarine walls, might just as well have been absent. The exquisite calligraphy drew no interest from these two.
Nuzha, Umar's only wife and the mother of his son, Ali, dressed herself in an elegant silk tunic, dyed yellow with saffron. Bands of decorations, in this case exotic birds, appeared at the upper arms. She stood without attendants by her side, stoic and aloof. Her husband's concubines lived in regal splendor beyond arched portals leading deeper into guarded apartments, but she was the de facto ruler of this realm. By custom, Nuzha should have been escorted by one of these mistresses and overseen by a eunuch guard. She'd dismissed them with no protest.
The man named Hasan, brother of Umar, wore a long and flowing white tunic with widespread sleeves and a loose fit. Beneath it were hidden hips disproportionately wide in comparison to his upper body. Nuzha disliked her husband when he was alive. She detested his brother Hasan even more. At least Umar loved his son and showered affection upon Ali. Her observations of her brother-in-law led her to believe that the only thing Hasan truly loved were his horses.
Still, her husband's brother had brought her news of Umar's demise, not that Nuzha felt surprised when hearing of her husband's murder. She thought that it would seem curious if she didn't appear interested in the circumstances surrounding the event, perhaps it might seem even a little suspicious.
"How did it happen?" she asked.
"I'm not sure," Hasan answered in an agitated voice. "It was a dagger, but I don't know who wielded the weapon or why they would want to murder Umar."
"You've reported this to the authorities?"
"Of course," he replied. "It's the first thing that I did."
"You will be questioned again," Umar's widow told him.
Hasan frowned as he considered the possibility.
"Nuzha, surely they can't suspect me..."
"They will suspect all of us,” she replied, wondering why Hasan would think that he wouldn't be a suspect. “I imagine Shaprut will be in charge of the investigation.”
“The Foreign Minister?” questioned Hasan. “A Jew?”
“He is the Caliph’s most trusted advisor.”
Nuzha was correct on both counts. Both she and Hasan would be prime suspects in the investigation into the murder of Umar abd-Rahman. It's not hard to imagine that Nuzha had been driven by Umar's numerous liaisons and rude behavior towards her to the sort of madness that resulted in such an act. One need only understand her anguish and reflect upon the humiliation she had been forced to endure. She attended social functions with her husband, and men found her charming and cultivated and captivating. Umar chose to ignore his wife at these events as he spent his time casting his eyes about in search of his next conquest. Nuzha ha
d been worthy of a happier marriage, but she bravely endured her sad fate for the sake of her son. Maybe time, and Umar's indecent proclivities, had finally taken a toll upon her tortured soul.
Hasan also made no secret of the fact that he and his brother were not on the best of terms. He only tolerated Umar because his brother provided the necessary capital and contacts for their horse business. Even though they were business partners everybody knew there was little love lost between them. Umar's son Ali would inherit his father's share of the business, but it wasn't unrealistic to think that Hasan might attempt to buy the boy out. Perhaps killing Umar provided a means for the surviving brother to ingratiate himself into Nuzha's life. Hasan made no secret of his admiration for his brother's wife.
They were both suspects, but there were others.
"He told me he was spending the night with a Galician quyib," Hasan told Nuzha..
"You think she murdered Umar?"
"Things might have gotten a little rough. . ."
It was Nuzha's turn to frown. She lowered hers eyes, shaking her head in disbelief. She'd heard the rumors dozens of times. She had hoped for more from her marriage, but she'd always been disappointed. She'd longed for a happy marriage, but her own union had never given her pleasure.
At first, she was convinced that it was her pregnancy that led Umar to seek out other women beyond the harem he’d gathered around himself. Her husband's frequent absences after the birth of their son had disproven this theory and left little doubt in her mind that she would have to endure a sad and frustrating marriage. An attractive and cultivated woman deserved better, she often thought to herself. She decided to dedicate her time to studying music and writing poetry and most of all to nourishing the relationship between her young son and herself.
"I must prepare for mourning," she told Hasan.
As the man of squat stature turned to leave, he remembered there was something that he wanted Nuzha to consider. Something for the widow to think about as the future unfolded.
"Your son will need a father," Hasan told her, stepping in closer.
Nuzha took a step back before replying: "You know how I feel about you."
"Keep me in mind, Nuzha."
"Leave me in peace, Hasan."
Nuzha sat facing a gilded mirror. She rested in her toilette room dealing with conflicted emotions, settling into a room designed with indoor plumbing to enhance bathing and grooming. She began to prepare herself to take on the appearance of mourning.
For Nuzha, a facade of grief allowed her to offer a convenient mask to Andalusi society, one that would help hide her true feelings. She felt uneasy deep down in her soul. She gazed into the mirror and found herself frowning. Nuzha resented having to wear traditional mourning clothes presenting a false front when she would rather dress in a manner that reflected her true self. The death of Umar could not hide the fact that she viewed herself as an impressive woman. She'd capitulate, but only for the sake of Ali.
In her heart, she almost felt grateful that her husband had met this fate. She had borne Umar a son, a male heir, and that's all he'd wanted of her. From the moment of Ali's birth, he scorned her. His countless liaisons and numerous concubines were a constant reminder that her status as his first and only wife meant nothing to him. Now, she could devote her full attention to her son without any of Umar's unreasonable demands or his ongoing desire to get his hands on her dowry. He’d never accomplished that bit of thievery.
Nuzha smiled to herself.
She dabbed a cotton cloth into a basin of water and, gazing up into the mirror, she closed her eyes and began to remove black kohl eyeliner from an oblong face. Opening her eyes as she wrung out the cloth, Nuzha noticed a couple of wrinkles, small lines developing at the edges of those orbs, the first signs of aging. She wasn't a girl anymore, neither in body nor in spirit.
Ali will be heartbroken at first, she thought to herself. For all his many faults, Umar was a good father and he loved his son. She hoped, Allah willing, that the boy would one day grow into a man and the years would help erase his father's memory. That was her fervent hope for the future.
She dipped the cotton cloth into the basin of water a second time, wringing it out and rubbing the soft cloth along her arms and legs, over her entire body to remove the scent of jasmine perfume. This sensuous touching of her own skin made her bemoan the lack of another's touch.
This privation led her to resent Umar and his chosen lifestyle all the more, but this would soon be a memory. Perhaps not forgotten, but a memory nonetheless. Nuzha then cleaned the henna dye from her fingernails and toenails. She removed the lipstick from her mouth using the dampened cloth. After completing this task and changing her facial appearance, she conformed with an archetype, the grieving widow. She would later change out of the exquisite silk robe into a plain, drab linen tunic and then adopt a veil, an accessory women of her social status weren't given to wearing either in private or in public.
The veil, she thought, what an inconvenience.
While Nuzha contemplated the inadequacies of the mourning ritual, one of Umar's concubines entered the room. Fatima, considered by many to be more attractive than the wife, lacked the advantage of the widow's cultured upbringing.
"I should follow your lead and prepare for mourning."
"I appreciate your support, Fatima."
The concubine, named after the daughter of the Prophet Muhammad, entered further into the room. She placed her hand upon Nuzha's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Umar's wife turned her head and looked up at the woman with an enigmatic smile. This was the first time the concubine had displayed kindness towards her. How sweet of Fatima, she thought, and the compassionate act began to heal the widow from her feelings of isolation. She reached up and placed a palm gently upon the concubine's hand.
"I should go change my clothes," said Fatima, as their two hands disengaged.
"So must I," replied Umar's widow.
Nuzha looked back into the mirror one last time before rising to leave the room. She found a tear forming in the corner of one eye. The emotions beginning to well up inside of the widow were not caused by love for her dead husband, but only from concern for her only child, her son Ali. Nuzha would do anything for Ali. Had she resorted to murder and blocked out all traces of memory?
Nuzha wasn't sure.
Chapter 5
At the southern edge of al-Zahra, where suburbs gave way to rows of lavish apartments, an adroit Iberian driver found his designated street and deftly veered a two-wheeled cart around a corner without slowing down to reduce speed. Solomon grabbed a tight grip on his seat and fought successfully to maintain his balance. Three blocks later they came upon an armed guard stationed outside the front door of Umar's apartment. The weather-beaten driver halted his cart and the investigator jumped down.
The nervous sentinel's fingers found the handle of a short sword, but he froze in place when Solomon shoved the Foreign Minister's impressive signet ring in front of his pudgy face.
"I'm under orders from the Caliph," he explained. "I need to inspect this apartment."
The stout guard grunted something unintelligible and allowed him to pass.
Solomon opened the door and crossed the threshold. A month of grunts like that guard's and he'd be a candidate for admittance into one of Córdoba's many asylums, he told himself. This clever interior monologue, a stream of consciousness often indulged in, but one best kept to himself, came up short against a strong sensation. An odor of decay assailed him and he knew beyond a doubt that he'd found himself in the presence of death and decomposition.
He held his breath for an instant, realized the futility of this approach, and then cupped one hand over his mouth and nose. Even this proved ineffective so he gave himself over to the olfactory invasion, grateful that he hadn't eaten anything earlier that morning. The Caliph's sweet-smelling oranges had lost their appeal.
Solomon scanned the extravagant apartment. Green divans, set back against vermillion hued walls,
were accented with soft pillows covered in yards of silk and chenille. This room must've required the yield of an entire mulberry orchard. He laughed at his own joke, but again second thoughts regarding the timing of his unintended mental dexterity assailed him.
This was serious business.
Be silent chameleon mind, he admonished himself.
Umar's hookah rested nearby, a pipe with a long flexible tube connected to an ornate chamber where smoke cooled by passing through water. Solomon wondered if this particular device had been used for smoking molasses based shisha tobacco. More likely Umar preferred hashish.
A few tiny particles of charcoal, heated to cook the tobacco or hash to a temperature that didn't burn it but still produced smoke, had fallen to the floor off a metal screen placed over the tobacco bowl. He removed the screen and inspected the bowl. It proved empty and clean and offered no evidence revealing what type of substance pleasure-seeking Umar favored.
An embossed and gilded goatskin tapestry hung from the near wall suspended between stucco cornices. The scene depicted erotic imagery suggesting nefarious erotic adventures. This apartment feels contrived for unbridled indulgence, he thought
Solomon experienced a tightening in the pit of his stomach.
In this ostentatious chamber he sensed the presence of the dark side of human sexuality. Human appetite ruled by compulsions. This wasn't a setting in which to pursue a natural physical attraction, or a satisfying act of compassion, or even a co-mingling awareness of mutual creature-ly comfort. Healthy sex seemed out of the question in this gilded lair. The absence of windows in the apartment heightened the effect.
He must visit Layla, he thought, suspecting his confidant could shed more light on the nature of Umar's preferences and perversions. He decided this would have to wait until after he questioned Umar's widow and the Galician woman's roommate.
The Galician Woman Page 3