A round bed, fit perfectly into the center of the room, left him wondering if the divans were reserved for additional party-goers or perhaps a group of voyeuristic cronies. His mind returned to the present as Solomon looked down and found Umar lying prone, stretched out on the bed's silk sheets. A triangular shaped, double-edged iron dagger protruded up from out of his heart at a slight angle. The cold finality of death put an abrupt end to his musings so he endeavored to view the scene with the detachment of a surgeon.
He observed no signs of a struggle. That seemed odd to him. Either Umar was familiar with his attacker or somebody had taken advantage of the element of surprise.
Red blood.
The metallic scent of iron filled the air.
Solomon felt ill as his stomach turned queasy, ending his surgeon's fantasy.
The dagger, its tarnished handle sticking out from Umar's once pulsating heart, mocked the Umayyad Caliphate's ideal of peaceful co-existence. Celtic symbols, inscribed on the knife handle, made it easy to believe the Galician woman committed this murder. Did somebody plant this particular weapon in Umar's body to point a finger at Galicia, he asked himself. This type of knife could be purchased in many of the bustling markets of Córdoba and al-Zahra; a novelty perhaps, but easily acquired. Then again, maybe that Galician woman or Christians inspired by the idea of a Reconquest of Muslim Andalusia, were responsible. The size of the dagger handle was inconsequential, either a man or woman could've grasped it without difficulty.
He had an inkling that his cousin, the Foreign Minister, had already examined Umar. This stood to reason and explained how Hasdai had known the time frame of bodily decomposition. Poor Hasdai had probably been up half the night. No wonder he appeared perturbed, not his usual good-natured self. Solomon wondered who else might have seen the corpse before him. Hasdai didn't mention any names so he could only venture a guess. The Chief of Police was likely to have been to the apartment and perhaps the Caliph himself, though that was unlikely.
He turned his attention back to the body.
Even in death, Umar retained his handsome good looks, bearing features similar to the Caliph: pale skin covered facially with a silky red beard. The nephew, unlike his uncle the reigning monarch, didn't dye his red hair and beard to color them black. Some said the Caliph adopted this vanity to appear more Arabic. The heritage of Caliph Rahman III's mother Muzna, a captive slave concubine and Christian from Navarre, in the region of the Pyrenees, suggested as much.
The Caliph's grandmother, Iniga, daughter of King Fortun Garces of Navarre, also contributed to his Hispano-Basque heritage, making Rahman III only one-quarter Arabic. Maybe even less when one considers that Rahman I's mother, two hundred years earlier, was a north African Berber concubine taken to Damascus for the pleasure of Caliph Hisham ibn Abd al Malik's son, the Arab general Mu'awiya ibn Hisham who distinguished himself in the Arab-Byzantine Wars.
Ironic, thought Solomon, how a ruler with strong European and African bloodlines masquerades as an Arab Islamist to preside over the most enlightened kingdom on the Continent. The illusions that make life worth living never failed to amaze him. This mental conjecture, albeit interesting, had little bearing upon the investigation. Stick to the facts and the evidence before your eyes, he reminded himself. Stop the meandering history lessons he mumbled , castigating himself for being distracted. No time for a wandering mind even though it was often his greatest pleasure.
His attention turned back to the dead man's body. Umar surpassed Rahman III in both height and weight. Alive, he weighed a hundred pounds more than his uncle. The physical resemblances between the Caliph and his nephew ended with the pale-toned skin and, if Solomon remembered correctly, striking blue eyes. Thank God somebody had closed Umar's eyelids. He bet it was Hasdai. Two shiny gold dinar coins rested in the victim's eye sockets like miniature suns. These coins hadn't traveled far from the Caliphate's new mint.
Had he been overpowered it would've taken a group of men to subdue Umar. The lack of evidence of any kind of a major struggle led Solomon to consider once again the possibility that Umar either knew his attacker intimately or the perpetrators used the element of surprise. He'd been told Umar possessed a fearless temperament. Reckless is a more accurate description, he speculated. Umar, confident in his strength and physical prowess, dispensed with the necessity of traveling with a bodyguard. He thought of himself as invincible.
Solomon looked closely at the dead man's hands.
Like many men in mid-10th century Andalusia, Umar loved jewelry and especially rings. A keen-eyed connoisseur of lapidary artistry, all eight fingers were adorned with precious metals and stones: gold, silver, diamonds, sapphires, garnets, and emeralds. There were a couple of gemstones Solomon didn't recognize, but this shortcoming wouldn't have any bearing on his investigation. He couldn't begin to calculate the wealth that Umar's jewelry represented. A small fortune, he guessed. Umar retained all his fingers and rings so that ruled out robbery as a motive. This wasn't an opportune thief's plans gone awry.
Solomon's mind drifted back to happier times when he and the nephew rubbed shoulders in Rahman III's court. He suspected Umar might've been one of the Caliph's favorites if he hadn't been betrayed by a lack of moral restraint. Umar lived in the upper echelons of the Andalusi world, but his rendezvous apartment required a descent to the lowest level of the city, both physically and spiritually. Solomon had never witnessed anything quite like this apartment with its aura of perversion.
He focused his eyes once again on Umar's stiff body. Coagulated blood encrusted the dagger and spilt over past the garments of the Caliph's nephew, creating a crimson swatch on the pastel blue sheets. He began to poke around, but the scene of the crime proved disappointing.
No evidence of a major struggle. This fact kept bothering him.
He continued searching the apartment.
When Solomon wrote poetry it grew out of his love of using words to describe experience. It required a degree of concentration, but this was different. This investigating business demanded a heightened level of diligence. He needed to reapply himself, look for small details and meaningful clues and then think about their significance. His powers of observation came to the fore as he continued his search.
Something soon caught his eye.
A delicate wisp of long, silky hair glimmered in the late morning sunlight. Using his thumb and index finger, he plucked it off the floor like a thread and peered intently at the fiber. The brilliant copper strand left little room for doubt in his mind. The Galician woman had paid a visit to the scene of this crime.
He retrieved the thin roll of paper from his coat pocket and unfolded it. He concentrated on an address in the Christian suburb, repeated it a few times to himself, and then felt confident enough to deposit the details into his memory bank. He folded the paper into four equal sections, unfolded it again, and tucked the strand of hair inside. He carefully refolded the paper and returned it to his pocket.
This could be a bit of incriminating evidence, but don't make too much of it, he told himself. It seems too easy. The hair, well there was little doubt she'd come to Umar's apartment, but a dagger with Celtic symbols inscribed on its handle seemed too obvious. The strand of hair might have also been planted he realized in a moment of mental clarity.
Then he discovered the ring.
He found it at the base of a porcelain amphora, a five-foot high, double-handled vase whose swollen belly rested beneath a narrow neck and large open mouth. He knew that amphorae had been used for grave markers in the ancient world, but a connection between this practice and his discovery seemed unlikely. He picked up the thick, gold band and examined it closely. On the inside of the ring, he found an inscription etched into the metal.
It read: Yours in Eternal Embrace.
Before Solomon had time to consider the significance of these words, he heard a loud disturbance coming from outside the apartment. He pocketed the ring and returned to the front door to discover what might be causin
g the commotion.
At the entrance to Umar's apartment, Solomon found a man arguing with the corpulent guard.
The investigator stepped outside: "Who's this?" Solomon demanded of the guard.
"He claims he's Umar's brother, Sir."
"My name is Hasan, and I demand to see my brother."
Solomon raised his fist and displayed the signet ring.
The sibling of the dead man quieted down, but he continued to protest his lack of admittance through body language, shifting back and forth and then sideways before he commenced muttering unintelligible words. No tears in his eyes. The man appeared stoic rather than grief-stricken. The investigator wondered if the theatrics, and the man acting rattled, were a charade enacted solely for his benefit.
He took a closer look at the actor and observed how Hasan resembled a pear. His upper body, slight in the arms and shoulders, gave way to gravity as his torso expanded, unlike most men, at the hips. The rotund brother awaited Solomon's initial inquiry while the investigator reflected upon his own good fortune. The victim's brother had come to him. Now he wouldn't have to seek him out for questioning.
"What are you doing here, Hasan?
"I've returned to spend time with my brother before they come to take him away," Hasan explained. "I never should have left him.
"You discovered the body?" Solomon asked although he knew the answer to this question from his audience with Hasdai.
"Yes, and I reported it right away."
"It's all right," the investigator told the guard. "Let him pass."
The guard hesitated, then stepped aside as a sneering Hasan strutted inside.
Solomon closed the apartment door behind them and continued his questioning.
"I'm investigating Umar's murder under orders from the Caliph," he explained without divulging anything about his own background or his connection to the Foreign Minister.
"Tell me what you know about this tragedy, Hasan."
"I came to see my brother shortly after midnight. My brother likes to engage in nocturnal liaisons and sleep late into the morning, but on this day we had an important business appointment early in the morning." Hasan paced nervously as he considered his response to Solomon's question. He stopped abruptly and turned to face the investigator.
"Umar told me he was going to attend a party last evening and then spend some time with one of the entertainers. He said he'd send her home after he'd had his way with her and he told me that I should come over just after midnight and spend the night.
"Had his way with her?" Solomon asked.
"Those were the words he used."
Solomon didn't doubt this choice of words given Umar's reputation. Something bothered him. He searched around the room casting his eyes back to the prone figure of the Umayyad ruler's nephew lying on blood soaked sheets.
"There's only one bed in this apartment," he pointed out.
"We pull two of the divans together," replied Hasan. "We've done it before."
"You say that you and Umar had important business," Solomon reminded the brother. "What was the nature of your business?"
"We understood a dozen pure Arabians were available for a good price."
"I assume you're referring to horses?"
"Umar and I are. . . " Hasan hesitated for a moment, and then an expression of genuine sorrow, and the pain that it registered, changed the look on his face. "We were partners in a breeding operation. It may have only been a side interest for my brother, perhaps nothing more than a diversion. I, however, love these animals. They're incomparable. The most beautiful creatures in Allah's entire creation"
"What happens to the business now that Umar is dead?"
"His share becomes a part of the inheritance," answered Hasan.
"I see." replied the investigator, making a mental note to check further into Muslim laws of inheritance.
"No matter what you think of him. . .I know his reputation. . .Umar didn't deserve this unholy death."
"So where were you before you came here last night?" Solomon inquired.
"Home alone."
Solomon considered the response and realized there was no way of proving it's veracity. It's a convenient alibi, he reasoned. One that's been used a thousand times before. One that Hasan would have used had he plotted his own brother's murder and been lying in wait for him when he arrived home from the party. For all he knew the entertainer might have been an accomplice. He decided to press on with his questions.
"Did you notice anything unusual when you arrived last night?"
"That Galician woman killed my brother," Hasan shouted, ignoring the question. "I swear by Allah that I will hunt her to the ends of the earth and make her pay for this crime."
Hasan's eyes protruded from a weary face; his Garlic breath overpowered.
Solomon took a step back.
You may have to travel to the ends of the earth to find her, it occurred to him. If so, we may be crossing paths. "You didn't answer my question," the investigator reminded him. "Was there anything out of place?"
"What makes you think I have to answer your questions?" Hasan sneered as his nostrils flared in anger. "Just because the Caliph chooses to employ Jews at the highest levels of his government doesn't mean he can force his own family to answer to them. There's no law that says I have to answer your questions."
Solomon flinched. He knew that a majority of Andalusia's Muslims, following the example of Rahman III, maintained an attitude of toleration, and even respect, for their Jewish and Christian counterparts. He also understood that there were some not so agreeable, including some in the Caliph's own family. Hasan was evidently one of them although for some reason he had cooperated at the beginning of the questioning.
"No, you don't have to answer my questions, but your reluctance to do so in the murder investigation of your own brother makes you a prime suspect, doesn't it?
Annoyed by the brother's attitude, the investigator wondered if one of the empire's thousands of Ibero-Roman converts to Islam would react the same as somebody with bloodline connections to the royal family. He doubted it. Hasan seemed perturbed; maybe Solomon had touched a nerve.
"Sounds like you have something to hide," Solomon goaded.
"I didn't notice anything," Hasan replied. Umar's excitable brother avoided eye contact while nervously adjusting his clothing. "I was too upset."
"So why have you returned?"
"I've already told you. I want to spend time alone with my brother before the family arrives to claim his body and prepare him for burial."
He found himself disliking Umar's brother, but Solomon decided that he should respect the brother's request. He would have wanted the same consideration if it were one of his own family members.
"As you wish, Hasan," he consented. " I may need to ask you more questions, later."
"As you wish. . ." mimicked Hasan.
Solomon ignored the brother's sour attitude and took his leave, but he couldn't help feeling that Umar's brother might be hiding something from him. Sure he had answered the investigator's questions, but only reluctantly and with a vehemence disproportionate to the situation. Was there a vital clue or piece of information that he was withholding? Solomon had collected two pieces of physical evidence, but didn't know if they would lead him to the murderer of the Caliph's nephew.
Solomon only knew one thing for certain.
He did not trust Hasan.
Chapter 6
Solomon sat next to the old muleskinner, back on the weathered bench seat, as the flick of a switch and a sudden shout caught the mule's attention. The cart lurched forward and they began to retrace their route across the city.
His driver pulled away from the scene of the crime just as something new occurred to the investigator. He wondered how the brother knew that the Galician woman was the entertainer who had visited Umar's apartment. In the heat of the moment, he hadn't thought to ask. Solomon often wished his mind operated more quickly. He suspected cousin Hasdai would not
have made the same mental mistake. He didn't feel like returning to confront the dead man's brother so he allowed the matter to rest. There was another reason that he dismissed the idea of returning to ask the brother about the woman.
A new and disturbing thought had arisen in his mind. Has anybody considered suicide he wondered as they raced back through the suburbs. The investigator doubted that anybody other than himself had thought about the possibility; and, even he doubted it was a plausible explanation. The angle of the dagger in the dead man's chest argued against it. Given Umar's temperament it seemed unlikely. Solomon decided to dismiss this possibility as the cart continued to rumble towards the heart of a vibrant city: past public baths, popular libraries, hospitals, public schools, and sacred mosques with their beloved minarets.
The driver steered his cart around al-Zahra's main square where the city's principal fountain, one of hundreds found throughout the lush, green metropolis, spewed a stream of water high above the embellished figures of twelve different quadrupeds, each animal incrusted in gold leaf with eyes fashioned from embedded precious stones.
Lavish al-Zahra, a sight to behold.
They slowed their speed as the cart rolled down a wide, paved street past dozens of store fronts and outdoor markets where they found themselves surrounded by al-Zahra's animated crowds. The song of life pulsated in their blood, infusing the city with energy and vitality.
Arab, European, Asian, and African shoppers offered a visual kaleidoscope of world fashion with long, flowing multicolored tunics woven from a variety of cloths and silks, all displayed in a multitude of colorful designs and topped by an assortment of headgear, including swirling turbans worn proudly by dark-skinned North African Berbers.
They drove past stalls displaying an array of fruits, vegetables, nuts, and berries--myriad shapes, textures, and hues-- offering an endless variety of flavors appealing to the culinary diversity of the Andalusi palate. The investigator found his appetite returning. He asked the driver to pull over and stop so that he might buy a loaf of leavened bread to assuage his hunger.
The Galician Woman Page 4