"I think you have an affinity with Saint Anthony," chuckled Bishop Racemundo.
"What do you mean?"
"Saint Anthony is the patron saint of seekers of lost articles."
"Lia isn't exactly an article."
"I'm sure the saint made an exception in your case," the Bishop insisted good-naturedly. "He probably widened the definition for you, but I was actually thinking of the lost manuscript."
The investigator swallowed hard.
"How did you find out about that?"
"The Caliph is very forthcoming with his inner circle. He thinks we can be trusted. When the theft of the manuscript occurred your cousin Hasdai was floating the idea of sending me back to Constantinople to meet with representatives of the Byzantine Emperor. I was going to request the services of a Greek-speaking Byzantine monk, a man named Nicholas, to help us translate De Materia Medica. The mission is still under consideration."
There was a degree of transparency at the highest levels of state that Solomon had never imagined possible in a multicultural society. The Caliph's meritocracy was evidently based upon a wide reaching mutual respect among his inner circle. While this translator-turned-investigator sat in amazement pondering the inclusiveness of Rahman III's governance, the door to the dreary little office swung open.
A woman walked into the reception room followed by a prison official. Solomon guessed the man to be the institution's superintendent. Bishop Racemundo leaned into his staff as he stood to welcome this odd couple. Andalusia's highest ranking Catholic cleric then extended his hand in greeting, first to the woman and then to the man. Solomon followed his lead as they were introduced to one of the Caliph's many Galician concubines. Noela, a honey-colored blonde who arrived elegantly dressed in a floor length red silk tunic with matching red shoes, appeared curvaceous despite her ample figure.
"Shall we go visit the prisoners," asked the warden.
Detainees is more appropriate, Solomon thought.
"By all means," replied the Bishop. "First, however, I would like to speak with Noela."
The unlikely quartet remained in the dismal reception area another ten minutes while Racemundo and Solomon conversed with the concubine.
They followed the official down a long hallway filled with oppressive, dank air until they arrived at the entrance of a guarded cell. Bishop Racemundo gestured towards the door. The obliging warden opened the heavy, clanking metal barrier and our trio entered a spacious cell at what had euphemistically been called a detention center.
At first glance, the private room didn't look deficient for a prison environment. It contained substantial amenities: a comfortable bed, an oversized dresser, a metal wash basin with assorted towels and wash cloths, and a chamber pot. Solomon spied a single barred window, opened to provide fresh air.
A plate emptied of food sat on the floor near the doorway.
Roi stood as the visitors entered his temporary chambers. The robust Gallego didn't appear injured or underfed. These were good signs, an indication Hasdai had wielded his considerable influence on behalf of the suspects. The mute foreigner seemed surprised by the visit as he waited quietly for someone to speak.
Noela spoke first. Fluent in both Galician and Arabic, she had rehearsed her questions earlier with the Bishop and Solomon. Listening intently, Roi found it impossible to take his eyes off the concubine as she asked her questions. She relayed his answers in Arabic.
"He says he's been treated well, and he confesses to killing Umar."
"What!" shrieked Solomon. "He's changed his story. When I questioned him, at his farm in Galicia, he told me he had gone to Umar's apartment to find his sister. Said he saw someone leaving as he approached. They were hooded and unrecognizable. He said when he entered the apartment looking for his sister, Umar was already dead and he found Lia lying unconscious at the foot of the bed."
Noela turned her gaze to the tall, black-robed Bishop.
"I suspect he's lying to protect his sister. Tell him I consider it a sin to lie to us even if he holds his sister's best interests at heart. Noela, tell him God will forgive his sister, but will show him no mercy for premeditated lying to a representative of God."
Noela delivered the message in the softest voice imaginable.
The brawny farmer listened quietly to her soothing tone and ruminated for a moment. To the surprise of all present, he sat down on the bed and buried his head in his hands and then he began to rock back-and-forth like a child. The compassionate concubine took his hands into her own and held them gently. Roi glanced up into her blue eyes. As tears began to fill his own, he whispered something to Noela. She continued holding his hands while turning back to the Bishop to offer her translation.
"You were correct," she told him. "He lied to protect his sister."
Bishop Racemundo knelt on the stone floor, took rosary beads from the pocket of his cloak, and began to pray out loud: "Hail Mary, full of Grace. . ." he began.
Out of reverence for the clergyman, everyone knelt on the cold, stone floor.
They walked with Noela along another damp, claustrophobic hallway, following the prison official until he came to an abrupt stop in front of one of the numerous cells. The man unlocked a huge padlock which secured an iron bar across the heavy door. He removed the barrier and the foursome entered the room.
Everyone's heart skipped a beat.
Solomon swallowed hard when he caught his first glimpse of Lia.
It had only been a couple of days since they’d arrived back in Córdoba, but the Galician woman's physical condition already appeared to be deteriorating rapidly. She had lost weight and appeared listless and unfocused. A plate of food--couscous, cheese, and a variety of fruit and raw vegetables--sat atop her dresser. It had been left untouched. Solomon found her vacant stare even more unnerving. He saw that her captors had tried to take good care of her, but Lia apparently hadn't made any attempts to take care of herself.
"She won't eat or speak," ventured the official. "She survives on liquids alone.”
"Have we broken her spirit?" Solomon wondered aloud.
"You misunderstand what's going on here," responded the Bishop. "A hunger strike is a courageous act of freedom and self-worth. An act motivated by strength not weakness. She's protesting her return to Andalusia in the only way possible under the circumstances.
Bishop Racemundo and Noela went to her bedside.
Rendered speechless, Solomon found refuge in one corner of the cell. He couldn't help but wonder if he had made a huge mistake. Maybe he should've left the brother and sister at the farmhouse. Umar was already dead and there was no bringing him back to life. He suddenly felt guilty and speculated that he might be the cause of a second death, this time from self-induced starvation. Would she take it that far? Was she exhibiting her vulnerability or her strength? Perhaps the Bishop is mistaken.
Noela leaned in close and whispered something into Lia's ear.
A knowing smile formed on the Galician woman's lips.
The Caliph's concubine continued to chat, but only the two women understood the meaning of the words. The Bishop and Solomon remained outsiders to the one-sided conversation. They witnessed Lia's eyes communicate something back to Noela, a message beyond words. Noela took the prisoner's hands into her own and held them tenderly while offering one final consolation. The elegant concubine addressed her powerless escorts.
"There is nothing you can do to make her talk to you."
"What made her smile?" Solomon inquired of the concubine.
"I told Lia that her brother is safe and well."
"What do you suggest we do?" asked Racemundo.
"I've begged her to regain her health," Noela replied. "I think she'll begin to eat again, but I can't be sure. She seems to like me. I told her I'll return to visit her and bring more news of Roi. This may give her some hope for the future. Perhaps they'll be reunited."
Solomon went over to the bed and stood silently above the former songstress. He didn't know what to
say or how to convey his deeper feelings. He summoned up a weak smile and uttered something in Arabic. He wasn't sure she would listen to him or even cared about what he was trying to communicate to her.
Lia looked up into his eyes.
Her weak smile gave him a glimmer of hope that she would eventually come around.
"What did you say to her?" Noela wanted to know.
"I can't tell you."
"We should leave now," insisted Bishop Racemundo.
Chapter 33
Solomon stood at Sara's doorstep oppressed by a guilty conscience. His stomach had tightened into knots, but the reluctance to share news of transpiring events was outweighed by his desire to see her once again. He glanced back across the street and registered the absence of the two Muslim spies who were hanging out in a shaded doorway the first time he'd visited this eastern suburb. Blue paint, still peeling off the weathered door, lie in tiny flakes at his feet.
Solomon knocked and hoped he'd find her at home. When the door opened, the attractive young woman he remembered so fondly peered up at him with a smile.
"Solomon," she said, with surprise in her voice. "Please, come inside."
She'd recalled his name and her invitation sounded far different from the hesitant attitude of their initial meeting. He had changed since then. Why would he doubt that she hadn't also changed during the time he'd spent away. He took a moment to study her dark hair, olive-skinned complexion, and ample lips. His opinion of her physical attributes had not changed. She could pass for a Jewess or an Arab woman.
Sara allowed Solomon into her home and closed the front door for privacy.
"Come, sit down."
She led him over to the once forbidden sofa and tucked herself down into one corner while he, not wanting to appear too eager, sat himself down on the opposite end. She turned and faced him, but made no attempt to move closer to the center of the couch.
"You brought Lia back to al-Zahra," she began. She squirmed on the couch; he sensed her discomfort. "Everybody in Córdoba has heard of it."
There was so much he wanted to tell her. In Hebrew, Sarah is a feminine name and means Princess. Biblically, the name was originally Sarai, wife of Abraham. When that Sara gave birth to her son Isaac, at the age of ninety, she laughed and cried at the ridiculousness of her plight. Sarai figured prominently in the mythology of the "People of the Book".
Solomon knew this Sara valued her independence, but he suspected she viewed the world from a naive perspective. Sara means pure or excellent in Arabic, but she was probably already aware of this so he kept this piece of information to himself.
This wasn't why he came to see her.
"I saw Lia this morning," he told her. "She won't eat or speak.,"
"I'm worried, Solomon," she admitted. "What's going to happen to her?"
"Hard to say, Sara," he answered.
In the exchange of given names, a relationship began to blossom.
"Trust me," Solomon said. "If I could I'd take you to see Lia I surely would."
She seemed to have developed a confidence in him and he found this surprising. She offered a hard won smile and the investigator returned the compliment. He gazed across the sofa for a closer look at her and caught a glimpse of the flesh beneath her white linen tunic.
"What's going to happen now?" she asked.
"I'm going to gather all my suspects together in one room and force the issue."
"Do you know who murdered Umar?"
"I have my suspicions," he admitted. “But I’m just guessing.”
"Who do you think did it?"
"I can't share that."
"So why did you come to see me, Solomon?"
"I just wanted very badly to see you again," he admitted. "It's that simple."
"You're a Jew and I'm a Christian," she replied. "It isn't simple at all."
Sara stood and beckoned towards the door.
Solomon followed her slowly to the threshold. He deliberately took his time and then paused before leaving. They stood facing one another, lost in the moment. Sara brushed her fingers against his forearm as they lingered at the doorway. Her gesture felt like an intimation of a possible future intimacy.
"Be careful, Solomon."
He sensed a sentiment sincere and deep. He wanted to take her in his arms, but he feared this impulsive act might frighten her. He realized that he wanted to see her again once the investigation had come to a close.
Go home, Solomon told himself.
Go home and try to come to gain some understanding.
Lying on his bed, Solomon felt the pain of deep discouragement. To have traveled all that way and endured all those hardships and mishaps and still be no closer to the truth of what had happened that night in Umar's apartment left him empty inside. He wanted to ruminate about his plan of attack, but his mind wandered, seemingly disinterested in particulars.
Every individual in Andalusia, on the entire Iberian Peninsula, throughout the entire world was capable of committing an act of passion, murdering another human being in the rage of fervor or fear, he reflected. He realized his solidarity with these unfortunates because he understood only too well that he was also capable of such an act under the most trying of circumstances. This is a potential existing inside each one of us was his conclusion.
The five suspects that he would bring together, along with cousin Hasdai and himself, were three Andalusis and two Galicians. The majority representing a relatively harmonious multi-cultural society and two from a militant Catholic stronghold.
Returning to his homeland, a culture where three different religions found willing adherents, led him to further reflection. Despite his naturalistic bent and preference for humanist poetry, he believed each faith had something to offer. It all depended upon the individual's temperament. None was perfect, yet they all shared the same essential truths. Love God whatever your perception might be of that creative force or primal power beyond all names and forms and love thy neighbor as thyself.
Doing unto others remained a challenge beyond measure. Most understood the various scriptures, few put the sentiments into practice. The world continued out of control because a majority of its inhabitants lived their lives with little self-control and even less regard for the sacredness of others. While the Umar's of the world thrived, many of the devout in Andalusia merely survived.
Solomon knew practitioners of all three religions had endured eras of violence and brutality directed against them, their religions inspiring attempts to create a more humane approach to daily affairs. That's why his encounter with a Christian Bishop who was also a Warlord felt so alien to him, an affront to his soul. The man embodied the antithesis of any true religious sentiment.
He thought it strange that many of the faith based peoples took their scriptures literally while the secular and scientific communities dismissed the stories as physically impossible and considered them irrelevant. He maintained a different point of view. The poet in him understood the fables and stories as symbolic, pointed reminders of eternal truths. He realized this placed him in the minority, but he took comfort in his belief that in matters of thinking the majority is often wrong.
Beyond the ken of the religions, a growing secular and scientific impulse had taken hold on the Iberian Peninsula. Advances in medicine, astronomy, mathematics, botany, and a slew of other sciences were creating a dynamic earth-centric culture that co-existed peacefully with the faith based.
In Solomon's mind the science of his times offered a means for gaining an awareness and deeper understanding of the outer world. Art, to his way of thinking, led to a deeper acknowledgement and expression of an eternally present inner world of images, and metaphors, and symbols.
Then it hit him.
He realized his inclination to philosophize about these matters had been leading him astray. The time had come to dwell on particulars and direct observations. Theorizing doesn't work, the nascent investigator thought. Take away ideas, preconceived notions, and what's left.
That strand of hair and the mysterious gold ring; these two minor miracles of the material world would lead him to the truth. Solomon was certain of this. Think, he implored himself. Think hard.
How do these two pieces of evidence point to Umar's killer?
Chapter 34
Five murder suspects sat in chairs arranged along a horizontal line inside the Foreign Minister's office. Solomon reasoned it would be easier to interrogate and intimidate the quintet if they faced forward, making it difficult for them to see or react to each other's responses. From left to right sat Ahmad, Nuzha, Roi, Hasan, and Lia.
The Tangerine stood guard behind them, scimitar at the ready. Noela stood quietly in the background prepared to translate the proceedings from Arabic into Galician when Solomon questioned Roi.
"What you see and hear inside these chambers remains in this room," began the Foreign Minister. "There will be no exceptions. It may well be a matter of life and death, including your own."
That was the investigator's cue.
Solomon stepped forward to address the gathering.
"What do we know?" he asked, indulging in a bit of conjecture. "We know Umar abd Rahman was stabbed to death with a knife, a murder weapon inscribed with Celtic symbols. This type of dagger is available in numerous marketplaces in Córdoba and al-Zahra."
Hasdai added a thought of his own.
"We also know Umar chose to limit himself to a single wife and a half-dozen concubines. A rather a small harem for a man of his wealth and status," interjected the Foreign Minister. "This suggests he preferred his dalliances with young, unattached women unacquainted with his eccentricities."
Solomon took over from his older cousin.
"The only hard evidence we have are a gold ring and a single strand of red hair."
Ahmad rose abruptly from his seat.
"Why am I here?" he demanded.
Ahmad's outburst attracted everyone's attention. Moving swiftly, the Tangerine came up behind the handsome suspect and applied downward pressure on one of the Arab's shoulders with his huge widespread hand. The frightened Ahmad looked up into menacing eyes and a threatening sneer and this hastened his descent back down into the security of his chair. The dark-skinned mercenary removed his curved sword and held it up as a warning to the other suspects.
The Galician Woman Page 24