“He’s become more eccentric . . .possibly senile.”
“We have asylums where he’ll be treated with understanding and compassion.”
“Yes, but the family considers that a last resort.”
“I understand,” Hasdai said with genuine sympathy. “Have you written any poetry lately?”
He keeps changing the subject on me, Solomon moaned to himself. This particular change evoked a touchy subject because the younger cousin felt unsure of himself in the presence of his former patron. Cousin Hasdai, benefactor of Jewish poets and scholars in communities throughout the world, deserved an honest response since his largess had once provided a small stipend allowing Solomon to continue pursuing his dream of publication. He’d often wondered if his cousin felt motivated by admiration or merely compelled by a generous kindness.
“I’m working on some poems inspired by my time in Granada.”
“Perhaps the journey north will also stimulate your muse.”
“The trek’s poetic possibilities might prove more interesting than a search for a missing person.”
“Try to summon more enthusiasm for this mission, Solomon,” the Foreign Minister advised.
He wants me to summon more enthusiasm. He’s not the only one growing weary of politics. Try to be fair, he told himself. Hasdai is a Jew working for a Muslim, albeit the most powerful Jew in Andalusia working for the most powerful Muslim in all of Europe. He reports directly to the esteemed ruler of the empire; but everybody knows their relationship goes deeper than religion or ethnicity.
Hasdai Shaprut might be Rahman III’s most trusted friend.
And, Solomon knew why. His older cousin’s deep devotion to his community had demanded personal sacrifices. The Nasi led by example, serving the Caliph’s desires because this pragmatic approach assured the well-being of his people. He gathered the leaders of his community together and rallied them around the sovereign. Although he served in a dependent position he was regarded as an equal by the Caliph’s most trusted advisors. As Foreign Minister he had enough clarity of vision not to abuse his great influence but to use it for the benefit of the Caliphate. Solomon stood wondering if he could entertain such a selfless existence. He pressed his lips together. He knew which direction his loyalty, and his travel plans, were pointing. They would take him on a journey to the savage north.
”I don’t lack enthusiasm, cousin,” he finally responded. “It’s just that there’re so many suspects, all with good motives for killing Umar, that this Galician woman seems a longshot.”
A wan smile was the Foreign Minister’s only response.
Hasdai’s a difficult man to read, Solomon thought to himself. He’s dedicated to the Caliph, sometimes to the point of ruthlessness. At the same time he’s sympathetic, encouraging those of us less talented than himself. The vagaries of human nature never ceased to amaze Solomon. Now this unanticipated assignment loomed. The far off reaches of Galicia where time for inspiration would be hard to come by in the midst of a murder investigation.
Tangerine, the ebony-faced African mercenary, peeked his head inside the front door, the safely of the Foreign Minister paramount on his mind. Solomon smiled to himself as he remembered anticipating the guard’s role in the unfolding drama, and he was certain they would be seeing each other once more.
Hasdai regained his strength and rose from the couch to issue final instructions.
“Your salibqui escort will have a horse waiting at the Almodovar Gate one hour after sunrise. That signet ring on your finger remains the key to opening doors in what might otherwise be a hostile environment. My Christian friends, in León, have agreed to your safe passage through their kingdom.”
“Problem is they don’t have any control over murderers and thieves along pilgrim routes in their lands,” Solomon replied, unable to hide his anxiety. “That concerns me.”
“We’re counting on you, Solomon.”
“I know.”
“I took the liberty of checking with Bishop Racemundo,” Hasdai said, reaching inside his cloak and bringing out a rolled sheet of cotton paper stamped with an embossed wax seal. “You’ll need this introductory letter to the Bishop of Santiago. You can also use it, if need be, when you encounter officials of the Caliphate as you journey north. Racemundo wishes you God-speed.”
Hasdai handed his cousin the document, walked to the front door, and then he turned:
“Take the Mozarabic pilgrim route. It joins the Via de Plata route, in Mérida. Your guide has already been provided with a map.”
Always one step ahead, the investigator couldn’t help but thinking.
“I’ll post a guard so your home is secure while you’re away.”
“Wait a minute,” Solomon blurted out.
His appeal stopped Hasdai dead in his tracks.
“I almost forgot. I told the cart driver to meet me at the Roman Bridge at sunrise.”
Hasdai thought about this minor complication for a moment.
“I’ll see that somebody meets with him in the morning to tell him that we won’t require his services until further notice.”
The Foreign Minister disappeared through the doorway leaving Solomon alone to straighten up the apartment with little time to contemplate an uncertain future. It’s all happening so fast, he thought. . . leaving at dawn and don’t have a handle on this case. . . need to know more about Umar and the suspects: the brother, the wife, and especially the enigmatic Galician woman.
He found himself hoping his older cousin was discerning in the assessment of the Slavic mercenary he’d assigned to protect him on his impending journey to the savage north. The Foreign Minister claimed the man was intelligent and spoke almost fluent Arabic. One of ‘The Silent Ones?” He found it hard to believe.
Solomon felt lost and a little unsure of himself.
It was time to pay a visit to Layla.
Chapter 12
The room smelled of men, earthy hormonal warriors. At the far end of the barracks, a powerful soldier stood alone packing leather saddlebags with clothing and personal belongings. His saqaliba counterparts, kidnapped from Central and Eastern Europe or enslaved in wars to serve in the Caliph’s army along with professional mercenaries for-hire, were watching and guarding the streets of -al Zahra and neighboring Córdoba. Most of these men were of Slavic origin, bought to Andalusia by Radanite Jewish merchants along the Volga trade route.
The Umayyad Caliph Muawiyah I initiated the practice when he settled an entire army of five thousand Slavic mercenaries inside of Syria in the mid-7th Century. Subsequent Andalusi Umayyad Emirs, and now self-anointed Caliph Rahman III , continued the practice on the Iberian Peninsula.
Jalal had been signaled out for a special mission, selected from among a thousand men known throughout the kingdom as “The Silent Ones.” Most of these Slavic soldiers lived apart, demonstrating little interest in learning the Arabic language or assimilating themselves to the dominant Muslim culture.
Unlike his fellow soldiers, Jalal took a keen interest in learning the language of the Andalusi elite. He spent his weekends with an Ibero-Muslim woman, a convert to Islam, and she supported his aspirations. She tutored the warrior, teaching him the basics of reading and writing Arabic script as well as venturing out with him into the markets for a little practical application.
The blond-haired, muscular Slav took a smooth vellum map and secured it at the top of the full saddlebag. He had been told by General Naja, the Caliph’s commander-in-chief and a fellow Slav, that the drawing had been prepared by the Foreign Minister. The map indicated the routes he must follow, the roads and trails that would take Jalal and his charge all the way to far-off Galicia, if that proved necessary. He was already familiar with some of the terrain having gone on maneuvers along the Camino Mozarabic earlier in the spring.
Jalal considered what else he might pack.
Warm clothes and his seal-skinned raincoat were a necessity.
What about his personal sword, he wondered. No, he�
�d leave the inscribed blade behind and give it to his woman for safe-keeping. He’d take a military issue sword instead. An extra pair of boots would have been welcomed, but he didn’t have room for them.
Jalal wasn’t worried about the dangers he might face on this mission. He possessed a strong and disciplined body and mind. Death had no hold on his emotions.
He wondered about the man he would be escorting.
All that he had been told was that the man had the absolute trust of the Foreign Minister and he was a translator who lived in the Jewish Quarter of Córdoba. A woman had vanished and their mission was to find her and bring her back to al-Zahra. Jalal had been ordered to keep these details to himself. He was also led to understand the assignment could be cancelled on a moment’s notice. The soldier was told to await further instructions from the General.
Jalal closed the flap on the leather saddlebag and tied it down securely. He felt good about his future prospects. If the Caliph’s Chief-of-Staff and the Foreign Minister were involved he’d likely be rewarded with a promotion to a higher rank if the mission proved successful. That was how Rahman III’s meritocracy operated throughout the political administration and the armed forces and the society as a whole. By the middle of the 10th century, this egalitarian ethic had helped create one of the greatest cosmopolitan kingdoms in the world.
More important, to Jalal’s way of thinking, was the possibility of earning his freedom.
General Naja had begun his army career as a slave and had proven his worth. He’d been rewarded with promotion after promotion until he had achieved the ultimate honor when chosen as the supreme commander of the Caliph’s army. Along the way, he had been granted his manumission. His wasn’t an isolated case. The opportunity for a life of freedom was the carrot that enticed both men and women to proclaim, through words and deeds, their loyalty to the Umayyad Caliphate. Throughout Andalusia, slaves and eunuchs who had proven themselves trustworthy had risen to positions of power. Many had also been granted their freedom.
Jalal’s spirits were buoyed by the thought he one day might be joining them.
He waited patiently, even hopefully, for his call to action.
Chapter 13
Twilight, an eternal marriage of day and night, found Solomon returning to the Muslim half of Córdoba. He reflected on the simplicity of the mathematics. Jews and Christians each lived in one quarter of the city, the Muslim victors possessed two quarters. His people’s share hadn’t changed since Roman times. The Christians, on the other hand, had basically been displaced. They’d lost half a city during the fateful invasion of 711. This geographical distribution mirrored a populace about one-half Muslim and the other half a mixture of Jews, Christians, and foreigners. Of course, the boundaries lines weren’t that easily defined. Some neighborhoods were more integrated than others.
Like the one Solomon was visiting when he turned down an urban alley between tall, two-storied buildings designed to block out the scorching summer sun. The narrowness of these streets magnified the intimacy of sound which led to heightened conversations, only the investigator now walked alone.
A short block later, Solomon arrived at a wooden gate. Beyond it lie the courtyard leading to Layla’s house. He found the latch and smiled to himself; she never locks the gate, trusting soul. Stepping quietly through the cool, green courtyard where brilliant red geraniums bloomed in terra cotta pots, he gathered his thoughts and walked up to at a door painted a bright indigo. He rapped four times in succession and wondered if, after such a long absence, she’d remember their secret code.
The door swung open: “I’ve been expecting you, Solomon.”
“What?”
“Bad news travels as fast as good.”
“How did you find out so soon?”
“Come inside,” cooed Layla, “It’s getting cold.”
She closed the door and locked the latch. She wasn’t that trusting, definitely not naïve. Solomon eyed the way she swayed her hips as he followed her into a well-appointed living room where scented candles illuminated the impending darkness, their low flames casting shadows along brightly painted walls. Everything about her seemed unique, especially the soft, sultry sound of her voice.
She hadn’t changed her look, hair still jet black with subtle highlights of orange-red henna dye, pulled back off her forehead and woven into a thick braid falling down her backside to her waist where an indigo ribbon was deftly tied around three inches of hair splayed out at the end of the plait
Layla’s tasteful tattoos, stylized arabesques also painted with henna, adorned her index fingers and the back of her hands a quarter of the way up her smooth-skinned forearms. There were more designs along the top of her small feet and on the sides of her delicate ankles.
More impressive were intricate, swirling lines dancing subtly across her forehead above dreamy indigo eyes. They created a visual spell as they continued downwards before coming to an end on her prominent cheek bones. Layla’s body had been transformed into a work of art and Solomon knew it had taken her hours to produce the mesmerizing effect.
He remembered getting lost in those patterns and losing track of time. He remembered the dress, long flowing folds of silk dyed indigo to match eyes accentuated with black kohl eyeliner, the neckline of this garment cut in the shape of a keyhole, Layla’s trimmed lower than most with fabric as smooth to his touch as her soft, supple skin.
More intimate memories rose to the surface of his mind: their first meeting when he’d begun his search for the lost manuscript, her connections with underworld characters and book dealers, some respectable, others not so scrupulous. It might seem unlikely that Solomon had a courtesan as a confidant, but their introduction had been arranged by Hasdai to help expedite that quest.
Solomon had found her worldliness a bit scary at first, but also attractive. . . seductive even. So, why had he resisted her advances?
So much time since he’d been here in her nest, yet everything felt as familiar as a warm sunny day. The deep-cushioned sofa and walls painted in popular vermillion hues mimicking her personality, passionate yet comfortable. Exquisite attention to detail revealed a sense of grace offset by stylistic nuances. Here he was again, gazing at her left ankle where half a dozen gold chains jingled a subtle rhythm, in time with her footsteps, while she walked as always in bare feet.
Solomon didn’t have time to dwell on more particulars.
“How did you know I’m investigating Umar’s murder?”
“Friends in high places tell me things.” Layla reminded him. “Al-Zahra doesn’t keep many secrets.”
“That’s why you’ve chosen to remain in Córdoba?”
The courtesan offered a smile in-lieu of an answer. Solomon had long since given up trying to understand how Layla knew so much. Her friends in high places might even include the Caliph. He knew only one thing knew for certain. He needed her help.
“I’ve got witnesses and some possible motives, but I can’t prove a thing,” he confessed. “Can you shed some light on Umar? Why any of this might make sense?”
Layla reached out and took Solomon by the hand.
“Come, sit down.”
She led him over to the sofa and sat him down. Releasing his hand, she joined him on the soft cushions and moved in closer, so close he felt her hips rubbing up against his own, her flesh pressing into his. He felt a charge of energy as a strong current surged through his body. He took a deep breath and swallowed hard, hoping to hide his excitement and obvious discomfort.
“Are you hungry?”
“I had grilled vegetables and couscous from a street vendor,” he replied. “Anyway, I can’t stay long.”
Layla picked up her cue and returned to the investigator’s original question:
“Umar could be charming, but he also liked to play rough.”
“What do you mean?”
“A little too much wine and he turned aggressive, sometimes violent.”
Solomon had always thought of sexual intimacy
as a tender sentiment, albeit capable of rising to heights of intense passion and sensuality. But he wasn’t totally naïve.
“Was he a sadist?”
“I’ve heard Rahman III is worse. It’s just a rumor, but they say a slave girl who showed displeasure at being kissed by the Caliph ended up permanently disfigured. He had his eunuch’s burn her face with a candle.” Layla patted Solomon’s knee and gave it a squeeze. “There’s more. Another time at al-Na’ura, the Caliph’s villa on the river, his executioner, Abu ‘Imran Yahya, was called into a room where eunuchs were holding a young woman begging for mercy. The Caliph shouted insults at her and then ordered the executioner to behead the woman.”
Leave it to Layla to pass on gossip’s most salient details. She had a reputation as a raconteur and relished shocking her audiences with disturbing stories. A heartfelt laugh seemed to rise up from out of her belly, making Solomon even more uncomfortable.
She thought him completely naïve and inexperienced in the ways of the world. She’d told him that more than once, but he never knew when she was being serious with him or just kidding. She’d also said his innocence was what made him so appealing to her. That and his huge brown eyes and long lashes.
“What’s so funny?” Solomon asked.
“When I told you about the Caliph your eyes grew as big as watermelons.”
Solomon grumbled.
And Layla delighted in her teasing.
Solomon discounted most of the stories he’d heard about the Caliph. Powerful men are often the subject of jealous innuendos and countless fabricated tales, he reasoned. Only one story he’d heard interested him because it actually seemed plausible. It also shed light on Caliph Rahman III’s chosen successor and contained little shock value.
Given these circumstances, he found it difficult not to believe the story of Marjan.
He’d met this woman socially and understood that she was originally a Christian slave. They had both attended official gatherings and Solomon found her refined and resourceful. Her status as one of the Caliph’s four legal wives gave the story added credence. He knew that she’d emerged as Rahman III’s favorite through a bit of clever trickery.
The Galician Woman Page 9