The law professor rose from his chair, the pull of gravity slowing his ascent.
"Will that be all, Solomon ben Levy?" he wondered. "I really must get out for some air. This office is stifling during the summer months, even this early in the season."
Solomon stood and graciously bowed to his host.
"May Allah be with you," invoked the professor.
"And you as well," the investigator replied. "Thank you for your assistance. You have proven helpful to our investigation."
"Perhaps you could forward a good word to the Foreign Minister?"
"Consider it done."
Without uttering another word, the smiling professor rushed out of the room. He waited for Solomon to exit behind him before locking the door to his little sanctuary and rushing down the hallway towards the nearest exit.
Chapter 31
Solomon came well-prepared for his second round of questioning. He began on al-Zahra's uppermost terrace where the view across the valley to Córdoba remained breathtaking. During his absence, the pollinated white blossoms of the almond trees had transformed themselves into multitudes of green kernels. By the end of summer they'd be ripe for harvesting.
Outside the palatial estate once belonging to Umar abd Rahman, a single eunuch stood guard. The investigator recognized him from his first visit to the compound. He was the tallest of the two original sentinels and his personal escort into the interior of the villa. The soldier wore the same required military uniform and stood like a statue, not moving a muscle.
The guard suddenly came to life as Solomon stepped down from a familiar two-wheeled cart. Once again, Hasdai had arranged for the old teamster to act as his driver. The towering eunuch, possessing a memory undiluted by time, motioned for the investigator to follow him down the marble walkway. The luxuriant green foliage had yellowed, a result of constant exposure to the burning rays of the Andalusian sun.
They stepped through an arched entryway into the dreamlike reception area and Solomon found himself appreciating the light and airy interior, an expansive sense of space lacking inside his own tiny home. He began recollecting the arched portals, remembered how they led deeper into the compound's guarded apartments. His escort disappeared through one of them leaving him free to marvel at the domicile's majestic antechamber.
Soothing aquamarine walls and brilliant gold lettering greeted him. How could he have forgotten the stylish calligraphy? He realized how preoccupied he had been, how the journey north had added new experiences to his life while subtracting memories of past occurrences. Does it all balance out in the end, he wondered. Comforting sounds floated in the background. The warm-hearted laughter of women and children, coming to him from distant rooms, reached his ears and it brought a warm glow to his face.
Then he saw them.
The two women walking towards him were smiling radiantly and laughing out loud. They appeared quite at ease. They came unveiled. Their exquisite silk robes also suggested the period of mourning had come to an end. He observed them closely as they approached. They wore make-up and there was more, something intangible, an invisible nuance. They exuded a hint of perfume. It smelled musky like the essence of patchouli oil.
Nuzha stepped forward to greet him:
"Solomon ben Levy," she announced. "So good to see you"
"Really?"
"I owe you an apology," Umar's widow admitted. "I treated you rudely when we last met. Please forgive me."
"We were all under a lot of pressure."
"That's no excuse for my shameful behavior."
"I do need to ask you more questions."
"Let's sit down," Nuzha suggested, inviting the investigator to join her on a long marble bench lined with silk-covered pillows. Set back against a wall, it had been designed for the comfort of visitors and guests asked to wait in the reception area. The second woman joined them, sitting beside the widow. Solomon remembered that she was a concubine and not a wife. Umar only had one wife. That could be important, he reminded himself.
Remembering Layla's advice, he turned and looked directly at Umar's widow.
She possessed skin as smooth as the finest porcelain. He found her delicate nose and full lips decidedly sensuous. The fiery intensity of her eyes had been replaced by a softness Solomon found most welcoming. Long, luxuriant black hair cascaded down along the sides of her neck.
"Did you find Umar's murderer?"
He focused on her eyes.
"I need to find out more about your relationship with Hasan," he began, ignoring her question.
"Hasan adores me," Nuzha confided.
"And you?
"Hasan is given to flights of fancy," she giggled. "We're friends and nothing more."
The concubine nudged closer to join in the conversation: "Everyone can see that Hasan loves his horses," the concubine quipped. "There lies Hasan's one true love."
The two women shared a hearty laugh at Hasan's expense. This led Solomon to believe that Nuzha spoke the truth. She didn't look tense. Quite the contrary, she appeared relaxed and cooperative. The line of questioning didn't faze her. This is the women he had remembered from official functions: charming, witty, and refined. Solomon was glad she had returned to her natural self and he sensed this provided a unique opportunity to brooch a delicate question.
"Do you think Hasan capable. . ."
"Of murdering Umar to marry me?" she interrupted. "I don't think so. No, many times in the past I have made it clear to Hasan that I haven't the slightest interest in his attentions."
He'd have to take this matter up with Hasan in person. No need to press Nuzha further on the subject. His inquiries might not even prove relevant to Umar's murder. Hasan might be innocent of the crime. It was time to ask about another subject, one that might have a more direct bearing on the case.
"Muslim law entitles you to a share of your late husband's inheritance."
Deciding it was time to enlighten him, Nuzha changed the subject.
"You must realize that in our culture it is the woman who receives the dowry, not the man." He had been taken by surprise. She read it in his eyes. "My dowry was extremely lucrative, extravagant by most standards. My husband had many shortcomings, but Umar was a good provider and a loving father."
Her portion of the inheritance was no longer the issue, but the son and his share might provide the skeleton key for unlocking this mystery.
"You told me the inheritance of Umar's wealth is up to the Caliph," Solomon began. "Not quite true, is it? According to Islamic law. . ."
"I did not lie to you, Solomon ben Levy," she began, interrupting him again. "To drink alcohol is forbidden by the Quran, but Muslims are only human as you've no doubt witnessed. The ruling on wine drinking has been extended by jurists who at first allowed only the drinking of honey wine. Now a great deal of wine is consumed in Andalusia. Men desire to wear silk, again forbidden. So they have threads woven into cotton garments attempting to circumvent the religious law. I will repeat what I told you before. No matter what the law claims, the Caliph has the final say in all matters under heaven and earth. This is the reality of our existence."
Seeking an opportunity to study the two women's facial responses simultaneously, the investigator stood and turned to face them.
"However, we both know the Caliph is a devout Muslim. If nothing else, he wants to appear devout. I imagine he won't intervene in the distribution of Umar's wealth. Based on my information, your son will inherit most of his father's wealth."
"And well he should," Nuzha replied as she gazed directly into his eyes. "If you remember, I also told you that despite Umar's faults he was a good father. He loved his son. Loved him so much that he made sure Ali was his sole designated heir."
The concubine remained impassive.
"You must also realize the son blocks the full brother, in this instance Hasan, from receiving any share," Solomon responded. "It was only a matter of time before Ali would inherit his rightful share. Umar couldn't live forever."
He sensed another gesture of conciliation rather than a deeply held belief. Perhaps she had wanted her son's inheritance to happen sooner rather than later. Perhaps Nuzha had lost all patience with Umar given his many affairs. Solomon reached into his pocket and withdrew something shiny.
"Have you seen this ring before?"
Nuzha took the gold ring and held it between her thumb and forefinger. She regarded it carefully and took her time before answering.
"No, I don't believe I have," she replied, before handing the ring back.
"And, you?"
He showed the ring to the concubine.
"No. . ."
While he gauged their responses, the widow embarked upon a new theme.
"Every mother wants what's best for her son . . . or, her daughter. Do you think my being a murderess is what's best for Ali?" she asked, her voice rising an octave.
Solomon decided the time had come to end the interview. Nuzha, gracious and cooperative, had displayed none of her former vitriol. More questioning might feel like harassment. He pocketed the ring.
"I'm sorry I’ve had to ask these questions," he apologized. "You've been extremely cooperative. Time I have a talk with Hasan."
The two women stood to say goodbye.
"Don't bother going to Hasan's apartment," advised the concubine "You're more likely to find him at his stables."
"They're located a mile east of the Caliph's stables," added Nuzha. "Umar purchased the land in exchange for his brother's management of the business. Their business arrangement was probably a better marriage than our own."
The widow's radiant smile gave proof she had let go of the past.
The Imam has certainly worked some magic, thought Solomon. He wondered if the questioning would go as smoothly when he interviewed Hasan.
Solomon found pear-shaped Hasan leaning on a fence post while a small cadre of workers went about the business of grooming, feeding, and exercising two dozen or more Andalusian horses. This operation paled in comparison to the Caliph's immense stables which employed hundreds of laborers to care for thousands of horses. Those thousands created tons of pungent horse manure which the investigator knew wouldn't go to waste. Once dried, the Empire's agronomists applied it to every conceivable candidate: flowers, vegetables, root crops, berries, and all acid loving plants.
The investigator sniffed the air. The tang of Hasan's stables had remained in proportion to the size of the enterprise although it still exuded the distinct odor of equine feed and its aftermath. The moment the horse breeder spotted him approaching a scowl contorted his face.
Umar's brother turned back to his horses.
Hasan ignored him.
"You're the younger brother?" Solomon guessed.
"What of it?" challenged Hasan, answering his question abruptly with one of his own.
"Umar found incredible success in the world."
Hasan seemed ill at ease. Taking his arms from the fence post, he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Gravity, not just the laws of physics, but the gravitas of the situation, began to anchor Hasan to the ground.
"I'm not ambitious, if that's what you're getting at."
Those bulging eyes and that doughy face. No wonder Nuzha had resisted his advances. "A member of the royal family isn't ambitious?"
"There's nothing wrong with ambition. I possess my fair share, but I take exception to obsessive ambition. The kind that led to my brother's downfall."
"Umar's ambition was unrestrained?"
"You saw his apartment, you have been to his estate, and surely you've delved into his background." Hasan began, stating the obvious. "You and your cousin are not stupid."
He's done some probing of his own, thought the investigator.
"Tell me more about your horses and the business agreement with Umar?"
"A lucrative business. We sell our brood stock directly to the Caliph. Umar made the arrangement. In return for that, and for his supplying capital to launch the enterprise, I agreed to manage the day-to-day operations."
Hasan waved an arm in the direction of the exercise track where two experienced riders took powerful black mounts through a variety of gaits: walks, trots, and canters. They did everything except gallop the horses.
"Look at those two stallions. Aren't they the most beautiful creatures in Allah's entire creation?"
Solomon looked out to the track. He couldn't help but admire the strongly built, compact yet elegant black stallions with their long, thick manes and tails.
"Having spent the better part of the month on the back of an intelligent Andalusian mare, I agree whole-heartedly,” he answered, attempting to erase the tension between them.
"You brought the Galician woman back to al-Zahra." Hasan stated. This wasn't a question. The horse breeder made the assertion and then looked to Solomon, awaiting his response.
So much for erasing tension.
"How did you find out?"
"Surely you must realize I'm well connected," grinned Hasan. "I hope she ends up with her head rolling on the ground."
What a despicable little man. He stinks in more ways than one. The scent of Garlic oozes from his pores making him even less endearing. Avoid a confrontation. Stay focused on the investigation. Solomon took a couple of steps backwards, putting some distance between himself and Hasan.
"Tell me about your relationship with Umar's wife."
"You mean his widow," corrected Hasan. "My brother treated Nuzha despicably."
"You didn't answer my question," challenged the investigator with a bit of rancor in his voice. He was growing tired of getting deceptive ploys. Apparently, the Imam's magic had produced little effect upon Umar's brother.
"I asked you about your relationship."
"I'm in love with Nuzha . Hasan admitted. "Is that what you want to hear?"
"Everybody knows that. What I want to hear is. . ."
"Listen, Levy. . .I didn't kill my brother."
"I hope you can prove it."
One by one, Solomon was turning the tables on his suspects. Stonewalled and despised by them for the investigation he had agreed to conduct, he'd finally gained the upper hand. He wasn't yet certain who the murderer might be, but it was only a matter of time before he discovered the truth.
"What happens to your business now that Umar is dead?"
"If Nuzha doesn't want her son to purchase his father's share of the business, I have a long list of interested investors. But you must understand," Hasan insisted, "The business aspect is secondary for me. Just an excuse to spend my time around these beautiful animals. I swear as Allah is my witness, I would never subject them to sinful behavior."
"Yet you took your brother as a partner."
"I had hoped Umar might spend more time out here with me and the horses, that he might be led away from the life he desired to lead."
"Did Umar know how you feel about Nuzha?"
Hasan swallowed hard and turned his eyes away from Solomon.
This wasn't encouraging.
"I tried to be discreet. After all, she is. . .was my brother's wife."
Hasan leaned his back against the fence and considered his response. It took some time for him to articulate his feelings.
"Umar didn't deserve Nuzha. I realized that from the beginning, but I had no say in the matter. Otherwise, I would have attempted to prevent the union. No doubt, you've talked with her. I have nothing to hide."
Solomon peeked at the breeder's hands. Like his brother, and most men in Andalusia, all his fingers were bejeweled. The lavish adornment left no doubt the gold ring in his possession didn't belong to Hasan. There wasn't room for another ring and none of his fingers revealed the telltale sign of lighter skin.
Solomon took the ring from his pocket.
"Have you ever seen this ring?"
"I don't remember it," Hasan answered. "Should I?"
"I'm not sure."
The investigator had exhausted his
questioning and this led to a moment of reflection. Hasan had no reason to kill his brother for money. The son's share rules over the brother and blocks Hasan from any inheritance. Umar's death doesn't impact the business. Hasan has investors lining up to get a share of the Caliph's largess. Still, he might have done it out of jealousy and a desire to have Nuzha for himself. Maybe he thought he could overcome her resistances. Marrying the widow was a devious way to gain direct access to the untold riches of the son.
"I have no further questions at this time," Solomon said.
Having left the door open for future encounters, he took a final look at the stables. Out beyond the railings, two magnificent black stallions continued to please their trainers. As he turned to leave, Solomon couldn't help but notice the frown forming on the face of Umar's equine obsessed sibling.
"I didn't kill my brother."
"We'll see about that.
Chapter 32
They sat together, side by side, inside a bleak prison waiting room. One of the two men, Bishop Racemundo, had the look of an Old Testament patriarch. A tall, bearded and imposing figure, he grasped a crosier in one hand, a curved wooden pastoral staff. Solomon wondered if it were merely a prop, but he didn't dare ask because it might also double as a potent weapon. A piece of linen cloth, attached to the staff just below the crook, served as a handkerchief.
Bishop Racemundo wore a hooded black cloak.
A gold, pectoral cross hung down from the Bishop's neck on a long chain and an impressive circlet of gold, a ruby set directly into its center, surrounded the fourth finger of his right hand. Solomon's thoughts immediately turned to Bishop Sisnand and his remarkable ruby. He didn't find the memory of the old Warlord comforting.
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