by Tariq Ali
Zuhayr told him about the gifts they had left behind for the Count and the Archbishop. To his surprise Abu Zaid did not laugh.
‘You have done something very stupid, my friends. The kitchen in the al-Hamra is probably enjoying your joke, but they are the least powerful people in the palace. You have united the Count and the Confessor. A gift to the priest would have been sufficient. It might even have amused the Count and delayed the offensive. Did you really think that you were the first to have thought of such an insult? Others like you, all over al-Andalus, have executed similar pieces of folly. It is getting late. Let us get out of this district as soon as possible.’
Zuhayr smiled to himself. He was a courageous young man, but not completely bereft of intelligence. He knew that his capacities did not extend to leading an irregular mountain army. Abu Zaid’s presence had relieved his burden considerably.
As they rode the day was in full progress and the sun, unfiltered by even a single cloud, was warming the earth, whose scented dust they inhaled as they climbed the mountain. Ahead of them there lay an irredeemable landscape.
Later that afternoon, al-Zindiq delivered Zuhayr’s letter to Umar and described the events of the last two days. He was heard in silence. Even Yazid did not ask questions. When the old man had finished, Ama was weeping loudly.
‘It is the end,’ she wailed. ‘Everything is over.’
‘But Ama,’ replied Yazid, ‘Zuhayr is alive and well. They have begun a jihad. That should make you happy, not sad. Why do you cry like this?’
‘Please do not ask me, Ibn Umar. Do not torment an old woman.’
Zubayda signalled to Yazid that he should follow her and Umar out of the room. When Ama saw that she was left alone with al-Zindiq she wiped her tears and began to question him about the details of Zuhayr’s appearance that morning.
‘Was he wearing a rich blue turban with a crescent made of gold?’
Al-Zindiq nodded.
‘That is how I saw him in my dream last night.’
Al-Zindiq’s tone was very soft. ‘Dreams tell us more about ourselves, Amira.’
‘You do not understand me, you old fool,’ Ama retorted angrily. ‘In my dream Zuhayr’s head wore that turban, but the head was lying on the ground, covered in blood. There was no body.’
Al-Zindiq thought she was about to cry again, but instead her face turned grey and her breathing grew loud and irregular. He gave her some water and helped her back to her room, a tiny chamber where she had spent most of her nights for over half a century. She lay down and al-Zindiq covered her with a blanket. He thought of their past, of words left half-spoken, self-deceptions, the pain he had caused her by falling in love with Zahra. He felt that he had been the ruin of Ama’s life.
Instinctively, the old woman read his thoughts.
‘I don’t regret for a single moment the life that I have lived here.’
He smiled sadly. ‘Somewhere else you could have been your own mistress, beholden to no one but yourself.’
She stared up at him with a plea in her eyes.
‘I have wasted my life, Amira,’ he said. ‘This house has cursed me forever. I wish I had never set foot in its courtyard. That is the truth.’
Suddenly she saw him at eighteen, with thick black hair and his eyes full of laughter. The memory was enough.
‘Go now,’ she told him, ‘and let me die in peace.’
For al-Zindiq the very thought of dying quietly, passing on without a last scream of outrage, was unthinkable and he told her so.
‘It is the only way I know,’ she replied as she clutched her beads. ‘Trust in Allah.’
Ama did not die that day or the next. She lingered for a week, making her farewells at her own pace. She kissed Umar’s hand and dried Yazid’s tears, told Zubayda of her fears for the family and pleaded with her to take the children away. She remained calm except when she asked Umar to remember her to Zuhayr.
‘Who will make him his heavenly mixtures when I am gone?’ she wept.
Ama died in her sleep three days after Zuhayr’s flight from Gharnata. She was buried near Zahra in the family graveyard. Yazid grieved for her in secret. He felt that as he was approaching manhood he should be brave, and not display his emotions in public.
TWELVE
EVERY MORNING AFTER BREAKFAST, Yazid would take his books and retire to the tower.
‘Stay here and read with me,’ Zubayda would plead, but he would give her a sad little smile.
‘I like reading on my own. It is so peaceful in the tower.’
She never insisted, and so what had started as an assertion of the independence associated with approaching manhood had become a regular routine. It had begun two months ago when they had first heard the news of the events in Gharnata and the flight of three hundred young men with Zuhayr at their head.
Yazid had felt so proud of his brother. His friends in the village had been full of envy and he could not fully understand the sadness which had descended on the house. Even Ama, who had died so peacefully in her sleep, had expressed her misgivings.
‘Nothing good will come out of this adventure, Ibn Umar,’ she had said to Yazid, who could not have known then that these were virtually the old woman’s last words.
It was her caution which had made Yazid rethink the whole affair. It was Ama who, in the past, had defended every daring deed, however foolhardy, carried out by any male member of the family. She had filled his head with seamless stories of chivalry and courage which naturally featured his great-grandfather, Ibn Farid, in a prominent role. If Ama was worried about Zuhayr, then the prospect must be really grim.
From his tower, Yazid saw a horseman riding towards the house. Every day when he went up there he would hope and hope and pray that he would see such a sight and that it would be his brother. The rider was at the gates of the house. His heart sank. It wasn’t Zuhayr. It was never Zuhayr.
Yazid had never known the house so empty. It was not just Zuhayr’s absence or Ama’s death. These were heavy losses, but Zuhayr would return one day and, as for Ama, he would see her, as she had promised him so often, in Paradise. They would meet in the seventh heaven, by the banks of the stream which flowed with the tastiest milk imaginable. He missed Ama more than he would admit, but at least her place had been taken by al-Zindiq, who knew much more about the movement of the stars and the moon. Once when he had told al-Zindiq about his projected reunion with Ama, the old man had chuckled and said something really strange.
‘So, Amira thought she would go straight to the seventh heaven, did she? I am not so sure, Yazid bin Umar. She was not without sins you know. I think she might have problems getting past the first heaven and, who knows, they might even decide to send her in the other direction.’
No, it was Hind’s marriage and departure which, while not a surprise, had nonetheless come as a devastating blow. He was closer to Hind than to anyone else in his whole family. But she had gone. True, she had begged her parents to let Yazid go across the water with her for a short time, swearing to bring him back herself after a few months, but Zubayda would not be parted from her son.
‘He is all we now have left in this house. I will not let my most precious jewel be stolen from me. Not even by you, Hind!’
And so Hind had left without her brother. It was this, much more than the leaving of her ancestral home, that had made her weep like a child on the day of departure, and again a day later when she and Ibn Daud had boarded the vessel in Malaka for the port of Tanja.
Someone was running up the steps to the tower. Yazid abandoned his thoughts and began his descent to the house. Halfway down he encountered his mother’s maid-servant, Umayma, her face flushed with excitement.
‘Yazid bin Umar! There is a messenger here from your brother. He is with the Lady Zubayda and your father, but he will not speak until you are present.’
Yazid brushed past her and flew down the stairwell. When he reached the ground he ran through the outer courtyard like a whirlwind as Umayma, c
ursing under her breath, discovered that she could not keep up with him. She was no longer the slim gazelle who could outpace even al-Fahl. She had become round-wombed over the last few months.
Yazid appeared breathless in the reception room.
‘This is Yazid,’ said Umar, his face wreathed in smiles.
‘Your brother sends you hundreds of kisses,’ said Ibn Basit.
‘Where is he? Is he well? When will I see him?’
‘You will see him before long. He will come one evening, when it is already dark, and leave the next morning before it is light. There is a reward for his head.’
Umar’s face became transformed with anger.
‘What? Why?’
‘Have you not heard?’
‘Heard what, boy?’
‘The events of last week. Surely you have heard? It is the talk of Gharnata. Zuhayr thought that his uncle Hisham would have sent a messenger.’
Umar was getting more and more impatient. He was twirling the edge of his beard and Zubayda, who knew this was a signal that an explosion was on the way, tried to pre-empt his wrath.
‘We do not know any of this, Ibn Basit. So please enlighten us quickly. As you can see we are starved for news of Zuhayr.’
‘It all happened some nine days ago. Abu Zaid al-Ma’ari was leading us to a hideout in the mountains when we sighted the Christians. They had seen us too and a clash was unavoidable. There were just over three hundred of us, but from the dust raised by their horses we knew they were double our size if not more.
‘An unarmed messenger rode over to us from them. “Our leader,” he began, “the noble Don Alonso de Aguilar, sends you his compliments. If you surrender you will be treated well, but if you resist then he will return to Gharnata bringing only your horses.” We were trapped. For once even Abu Zaid had no clever scheme to see us through. It was then that Zuhayr ibn Umar rode out in front of us. He spoke in a voice that could be heard for miles. “Tell your master that we are not a people without a history,” he roared. “We are Moorish knights defending what once belonged to us. Tell him that I, Zuhayr ibn Umar, great-grandson of the knight Ibn Farid, will fight Don Alonso in a duel to the death. Whosoever wins today will determine the fate of the others.”’
‘Who is Don Alonso?’ interrupted Yazid, his face tense with fear.
‘The most experienced and accomplished of the knights in the service of Don Inigo,’ replied Ibn Basit. ‘Feared by his enemies and by his friends. A man with a terrible temper and a scar across his forehead, imprinted by a Moorish defender at al-Hama. They say that he alone killed a hundred men in that ill-fated city. May Allah curse him!’
‘Please go on,’ begged Zubayda, trying to keep her voice calm.
‘To our great surprise, Don Alonso accepted the challenge. The Christian soldiers began to gather on one side of the meadow. Two hundred of us went and occupied the other side.’
‘Where were the others?’ asked Yazid, unable to suppress his emotions.
‘You see, Abu Zaid had decided that whether we won or lost an element of surprise was necessary. He took a hundred men and placed them at different points of the mountain, overlooking the meadow. The plan was that immediately the combat was over we would charge down on the Christians before they had time to prepare for battle.’
‘But that is against the rules,’ Umar protested.
‘True, but we were not playing a game of chess. Now, if I may continue. Zuhayr carried an old, beautifully embroidered standard which had been given him by an old lady in Gharnata who swore that Ibn Farid had carried it in many battles. On his green turban there was a shining silver crescent. He planted the standard in front of his men. At a distance we saw a golden cross put into the earth by Don Alonso. At the agreed signal, Don Alonso charged, his lance glinting in the sun and pointing straight at Zuhayr’s heart. Both of them had disdained the use of shields.
‘Zuhayr unsheathed his sword and rode like a madman. His face was distorted with an anger I had never seen before. As he neared Don Alonso the entire company heard his voice. “There is only one God and Mohammed is his Prophet.” They were close to each other now. Zuhayr avoided the lance by almost slipping off his steed. What a display of horsemanship that was. Then we saw Ibn Farid’s sword flash like lightning. For a minute it seemed as if both had survived. It was only when Don Alonso’s horse came closer that we saw that its rider had lost his head. They don’t make swords like that in Tulaytula any more!
‘An almighty cheer went up on our side. The Christians were demoralized and preparing to retreat when Abu Zaid charged down towards them. They suffered heavy losses before they managed to escape. We took fifty prisoners, but, on Zuhayr’s insistence, they were given Don Alonso’s body and his head to take back with them to Gharnata. “Tell the Count,” Zuhayr told them, “that this war was not of our doing. He has lost a brave knight because the Captain-General is nothing more than a mercenary in the service of a cruel and cowardly priest!”’
Yazid had been entranced by the tale. He was so filled with pride on behalf of his brother that he did not notice the concern on the faces of both his parents. It was al-Zindiq, equally worried by the consequences of Zuhayr’s victory, who questioned Ibn Basit further.
‘Did Abu Zaid say anything about the reaction of the al-Hamra?’
‘Why yes,’ said Ibn Basit, looking at the old man in surprise. ‘He said a great deal two days later.’
‘What was it?’ asked Zubayda.
‘The Count was so enraged that he has offered a thousand pieces of gold for the head of Zuhayr bin Umar. He is also preparing a force to crush us forever, but Abu Zaid is not worried. He has a plan. He says that where he is taking us not even the Almighty would be able to find Zuhayr.’
‘There speaks the voice of Satan,’ said Umar.
‘Go and bathe, Ibn Basit,’ said Zubayda, looking at the dust on the young man’s face and the state of his clothes. ‘I think Zuhayr’s clothes will fit you. Then join us for the midday meal. Your room is prepared and you can stay as long as you wish.’
‘Thank you, Lady, I will gladly bathe and eat at your table. Alas, I cannot permit myself the luxury of a rest. I have messages to deliver in Guejar, and by sunset I must be in Lanjaron, where my father awaits me. Why do you all look so uneasy? Zuhayr is alive and well. For myself I am convinced that we can recapture Gharnata within six months.’
‘What?’ shouted Umar.
Al-Zindiq did not permit the discussion to continue any further. ‘The tongue of the wise, my dear Ibn Basit,’ he muttered, ‘is in his heart. The heart of the fool is in his mouth. The attendants are awaiting your pleasure in the hammam, young man.’
Yazid escorted their guest to the hammam. ‘Enjoy your bath, Ibn Basit,’ he said as he pointed Zuhayr’s friend towards the baths and hurried to the kitchen where the Dwarf, Umayma and all the other house servants were gathered. For their benefit he repeated, word by word, the story of Zuhayr’s duel and the decapitation of Don Alonso.
‘Allah be thanked,’ said Umayma. ‘Our young master is alive.’
Looks were exchanged, but nothing was said in Yazid’s presence. The excitement on the face of the story-teller had captivated even the most cynical members of the kitchen staff. The Dwarf alone appeared unmoved. It was only after Yazid’s departure that the cook gave expression to his feelings.
‘The Banu Hudayl are courting death and the end will not be long delayed. Ximenes will not let them live in peace.’
‘But surely our village will be safe?’ interjected Umayma. ‘We have not harmed anyone here.’
The Dwarf shrugged his shoulders.
‘That I do not know,’ he said, ‘but if I were you, Umayma, I would go and serve the Lady Kulthum in Ishbiliya. It is best that your child is not born in al-Hudayl.’
The young woman’s face changed colour.
‘The whole village knows you are carrying Zuhayr’s foal.’
A crude cacophony of laughter greeted the remark. It was a
ll too much for Umayma. She ran out of the kitchen in tears. Yet she could not help thinking that the Dwarf might be right after all. She would ask Lady Zubayda tonight for permission to wait on Kulthum in Ishbiliya.
Yazid was lost in his own world. He was in the pomegranate glade, pretending to be a Moorish knight. His sword was a stick, whose end he had sharpened with his knife—the knife Zuhayr had given him on his tenth birthday and which he proudly wore in his belt whenever there were visitors. He was galloping up and down in a frenzied fashion, waving his make-believe sword and decapitating every pomegranate within reach. Soon he had tired of the fantasy and sitting down on the grass, he split open one of the vanquished fruits and began to drink its juice, spitting out the chewed seeds after every mouthful.
‘You know something, Hind? I think Zuhayr will die. Abu and Ummi think the same. I could tell from the way they looked when Ibn Basit was telling them about the duel. I wish Ummi had let me go with you. I’ve never been on a boat. Never crossed the sea. Never seen Fes. They say it’s just like Gharnata.’
Yazid stopped suddenly. He thought he had heard footsteps and the rustling of the gorse which surrounded the glade. Ever since he had been surprised by Umayma and the other servants that day he had become much more cautious and always on the look-out for intruders. He wished he had never seen Ibn Daud and Hind kissing each other. If he had not told his mother, she would not have spoken to Hind and, who knows, perhaps the wedding might have been delayed. Hind might still have been here. What a strange wedding it had been. No feasts. No celebrations. No display of fireworks. Just the qadi from the village and the family. He giggled at the memory of how he had almost dropped the al-koran on Ibn Daud’s head, bringing a smile even to the face of the qadi. The Dwarf had excelled himself that day. The sweetmeats, in particular, tasted as if they had been cooked in paradise.
Three days later Hind had gone. It had been a time of sadness, but Hind had spent more time with him than with Ibn Daud. They had gone for long walks. Hind had shown him her favourite haunts in the mountain and by the river and she had, as always, talked to him seriously.