Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

by Tariq Ali

  In the old days, prior to the fall of Gharnata, the bath had been a centre for social and political gossip. Usually the talk dwelled on sexual adventures and feats. Sometimes erotic poetry was recited and discussed, especially in the afternoon sessions. Now hardly anything seemed to matter except politics—the latest series of atrocities, which family had converted, who had offered money to bribe the Church, and, of course, the fateful night which was burned in their collective memory and which caused even those who had previously expressed a total indifference to politics to sit up and take stock.

  The political temperature in Zuhayr’s bath was subdued. Three more faqihs had died under torture two days before. Fear was beginning to have its effect. The mood was one of despair and fatalism. Zuhayr, who had been listening patiently to his friends, all of them scions of the Muslim aristocracy in Gharnata, suddenly raised his voice.

  ‘The choices are simple. Convert, be killed, or die with our swords in our hands.’

  Musa bin Ali had lost two brothers in the chaos which had preceded the entry of Ferdinand and Isabella into the city. His father had died defending the fortress of al-Hama, which lay to the west of Gharnata. His mother clung to Musa with a desperation which he found irksome, but he knew that he could not override his responsibility to her and his two sisters. Whenever Musa spoke, which was not often, he was heard in respectful silence.

  ‘The choices underlined by our brother Zuhayr bin Umar are correct, but in his impatience he has forgotten that there is another alternative. It is the one which Sultan Abu Abdullah chose. Like him we could cross the water and find a home on the coast of the Maghreb. I may as well tell you that it is what my mother wants us to do.’

  Zuhayr’s eyes flashed with anger.

  ‘Why should we go anywhere? This is our home. My family built al-Hudayl. It was barren land before we came. We built the village. We irrigated the lands. We planted the orchards. Oranges and pomegranates and limes and palm trees and the rice. I am not a Berber. I have nothing to do with the Maghreb. I will live in my home, and death to the unbeliever who tries to take it away from me by force.’

  The temperature in the baths rose dramatically. Then a young man with a carefully chiselled face, pale olive skin and eyes the colour of green marble coughed suggestively. He could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen years of age. Everyone looked at him. He was new to the town, having arrived from Balansiya only a few weeks ago and before that from the great university of al-Azhar in al-Qahira. He had come to do some historical research on the life and work of his great-grandfather Ibn Khaldun, and study some of the manuscripts in the libraries in Gharnata. Unfortunately for his project, he had arrived on the very day that Cisneros had chosen to burn the books. The man with the green eyes had been heartbroken. He had wept all night in his tiny room in the Funduq al-Yadida. By the time morning came he had already decided upon the course which the remainder of his life would take. He spoke in a soft tone, but it was the music in his Qahirene speech, as much as his message, that entranced his fellow bathers.

  ‘When I saw the flames in the Bab al-Ramla consuming the work of centuries, I thought that it was all over. It was as if Satan had plunged his poisoned fist through the heart of the mountain and reversed the flow of the stream. Everything we had planted lay withered and dead. Time itself had petrified and here, in al-Andalus, we were already on the other side of hell. Perhaps I should pack my bags and return to the East ...’

  ‘None of us would hold that against you,’ said Zuhayr. ‘You came here to study, but there is nothing to study except a void. You would be well advised to return to the university of al-Azhar.’

  ‘My friend is giving you sage advice,’ added Musa. ‘We are all now impotent. The only thing we can glory in is the vigour of our fathers.’

  ‘There I disagree,’ replied Zuhayr. ‘Only he who says “Behold, I am the man” not “My father or grandfather was” can be considered truly noble and courageous.’

  The man with green eyes smiled.

  ‘I agree with Zuhayr bin Umar. Why should you who have been knights and kings desert your castles to the enemy and become mere pawns? Tear away the curtains of doubt and challenge the Christians. Cisneros imagines that you have no more fight left inside you. He will thrust you further and further towards the edge, and then with one last push he will watch you fall into the abyss.

  ‘I was told by friends in Balansiya that throughout the country the Inquisitors are preparing themselves to deliver the fatal blow. They will soon forbid us our language. Arabic will be banned on pain of death. They will not let us wear our clothes. There is talk that they will destroy every public bath in the country. They will prohibit our music, our wedding feasts, our religion. All this and more will fall on our heads in a few years’ time. Abu Abdullah let them take this town without a struggle. This was a mistake. It has made them too confident.’

  ‘What do you suggest, stranger?’ enquired Zuhayr.

  ‘We must not let them imagine that what they have done to us is acceptable. We must prepare an insurrection.’

  For a minute nothing stirred. They were all frozen by his words. Only the sound of water flowing through the hammam punctuated their thoughts and their fears. Then Musa directly challenged the young scholar from Egypt.

  ‘If I were convinced that an uprising against Cisneros and his devils would succeed and enable us to turn back even one page of history, I would be the first to sacrifice my life, but I remain unconvinced by your honeyed words. What you are proposing is a grand gesture that will be remembered in the times which lie ahead. Why? What for? What good will come of it in the end? Gestures and grand words have been the curse of our religion, from the very beginning.’

  Nobody responded to his objections and Musa, feeling that he now had the advantage over the Qahirene, pressed his arguments further.

  ‘The Christians hunt different beasts in different ways and during different seasons, but they have begun to hunt us the whole year round. I agree we must not let our lives become distorted with fear, but nor should we sacrifice ourselves unnecessarily. We have to learn from the Jews how to live in conditions of great hardship. The followers of Islam still live in Balansiya, do they not? Even in Aragon? Listen friends, I am not in favour of any foolishness.’

  Zuhayr spoke angrily to his friend.

  ‘Would you convert to Christianity, Musa, just in order to live?’

  ‘Have not Jews done so throughout the land in order to retain their positions? Why should we not imitate them? Let them tighten the screws as much as they like. We will learn new methods of resistance. Here in our heads.’

  ‘Without our language or our books of learning?’ asked the great-grandson of Ibn Khaldun.

  Musa looked at him and sighed. ‘Is it true that you are in the line of the master Ibn Khaldun?’

  Ibn Daud smiled and nodded his head.

  ‘Surely,’ continued Musa, ‘you must know better than us the warning your noble forebear directed against men such as yourself. Scholars are of all men those least fitted for politics and its ways.’

  Ibn Daud grinned mischievously. ‘Perhaps Ibn Khaldun was referring to his own experiences which were less than happy. But surely, however great a philosopher he may have been, we must not treat him as a prophet whose word is sacred. The question which confronts you is simple. How should we defend our past and our future against these barbarians? If you have a more efficient solution, pray speak your mind and convince me.’

  ‘I do not have all the answers, my friend, but I know that what you are recommending is wrong.’

  With these words Musa got out of the bath and clapped his hands. Attendants rushed in with towels and began to dry his body. The others followed suit. Then they repaired to the adjoining chamber, where their servants were waiting with new robes. Before departing, Musa embraced Zuhayr and whispered in his ear: ‘Poison finds its way into even the sweetest cups of wine.’

  Zuhayr did not take his friend too seriously.
He knew the pressures of everyday life on Musa, and he understood, but that was not sufficient reason for cowardice at a time when everything was at stake. Zuhayr did not wish to quarrel with his friend, but nor could he keep silent and conceal his own thoughts. He turned to the stranger.

  ‘By what name are we to call you?’

  ‘Ibn Daud al-Misri.’

  ‘I would like to talk with you further. Why do we not return to your lodgings? I will help you pack your bags and then find you a horse to ride back with me to al-Hudayl. Trust in Allah. You might even find some of Ibn Khaldun’s manuscripts in our library! You do ride?’

  ‘That is very kind of you. I accept your hospitality with pleasure and, yes, I do ride.’

  To the rest of the party Zuhayr issued a more general invitation. ‘Let us meet in my village in three days’ time. Then we will make our plans and discuss the methods of their execution. Is that agreed?’

  ‘Why not stay the night and we can talk now?’ asked Haroun bin Mohammed.

  ‘Because my father is in town and has pressed me to spend the night at my uncle’s house. I pleaded a desire to return home. It would be unwise to deceive him so openly. Three days?’

  An agreement was reached. Zuhayr took Ibn Daud by the arm and escorted him to the street outside. They walked briskly to the lodging house, collected Ibn Daud’s belongings and then repaired to the stables. Zuhayr borrowed one of his uncle’s horses for his new friend and before Ibn Daud had time to recover from the suddenness of the proceedings, they were on their way to al-Hudayl.

  Zuhayr’s uncle, Ibn Hisham, lived in a handsome town house, five minutes away from the Bab al-Ramla. The entrance to the house was no different from those of the other private dwellings on the street, but if one were to pause and look closely to either side it would become clear that the two adjoining entrances were in fact non-existent. False doors inlaid with turquoise tiles were designed to deceive. No stranger could imagine that what lay beyond the latticed doorways was a medium-sized palace. An underground passage beneath the street connected the different wings of the mansion and also served as an escape route to the Bab al-Ramla. Merchants did not take risks.

  It was to this small palace that Umar bin Abdallah had repaired after his unsatisfactory exchange earlier that day with the Captain-General of Gharnata.

  Ibn Hisham and Umar were cousins. Ibn Hisham’s father, Hisham al-Zaid, was the son of Ibn Farid’s sister. He had settled in Gharnata after the death of his uncle Ibn Farid, who had been his guardian since the early death of his parents, killed by bandits during a journey to Ishbiliya. While rising to become the chief economic adviser to the Sultan in the al-Hamra, he had utilized his position and talents to build his own fortune. In the absence of any rivalry over the property in al-Hudayl, the relationships between the two cousins had been warm and friendly. After the premature demise of Umar’s father, it had been his uncle Hisham al-Zaid who had stepped in and helped his nephew get over the emotional loss. More importantly he had also taught Umar the art of running an estate, explaining the difference between trade in the towns and land cultivation in the following words:

  ‘For us in Gharnata it is the goods we sell and exchange which matter most. Here in al-Hudayl what is crucial is your ability to communicate with the peasants and understand their needs. In the olden days the peasants were united to Ibn Farid and his grandfather through war. They fought under the same banner. That was important. Times have changed. Unlike the goods we buy or sell, your peasants can think and act. If you remember this simple fact you should not have any serious trouble.’

  Hisham al-Zaid had died one year after the fall of the city. He had never known any disease, and the talk in the market ascribed his death to a broken heart. This may have been so, but it was also the case that he had celebrated his eightieth birthday some weeks before his departure.

  Ever since his return from the al-Hamra, Umar had been in a dejected state of mind. He had bathed and rested, but his silence during the evening meal had weighed on everyone present. Ibn Hisham’s offer to send for some dancing girls and a flask of wine had been abruptly refused. Umar could not understand how his cousin’s family was in such good humour. It was true that people grew accustomed to adversity, but his instincts detected that there was something else at work. When he had told them about his meeting with Don Inigo they had refrained from expressing an opinion. Ibn Hisham and his wife Muneeza had exchanged strange looks when he had poured scorn on the Captain-General’s suggestion that every Muslim should convert immediately to Christianity. It was, Umar felt, as if they were being pulled away from him by hidden currents. Now, as the two men sat on the floor facing each other, they found themselves alone for the first time since his arrival. Umar was on the verge of an explosion.

  He had barely opened his mouth when a loud knock sounded on the door. Umar saw Ibn Hisham’s face grow tight. He paused for the servant to come and announce the new arrival. Perhaps Don Inigo had had a change of heart and had sent a messenger asking him to return post-haste to the al-Hamra. Instead of the servant, however, a familiar robed figure entered the room. Suddenly everything became clear to Umar.

  ‘My Lord Bishop. I had no idea you were in Gharnata.’

  The old man signalled for a chair, and took his seat. Umar began to pace up and down. Then his uncle spoke in a voice which was in marked contrast to his infirm appearance.

  ‘Sit down, nephew. I was fully aware that you were in Gharnata today. That is why I am here. Fortunately the son of my late cousin Hisham al-Zaid, may he rest in peace, has more sense than you. What ails you, Umar? Is the headship of the Banu Hudayl so great a burden that you have lost the use of your mind? Did I not tell you when they burnt the books that it would not stop at that? Did I not try and warn you of the consequences of clinging blindly to a faith whose time in this peninsula is over.’

  Umar was boiling with rage.

  ‘Over is it, Uncle? Why don’t you lift your beautiful purple gown for a minute? Let us inspect your penis. I think we might discover that a tiny bit of skin has been removed. Why did you not cling on blindly to that piece of skin, Uncle? Nor were you shy of using the implement itself. Your son Juan is how old? Twenty? Born five years after you became a priest! What happened to his mother, our unknown aunt? Did they force her to leave the convent, or did the Mother Superior double as a midwife in her spare time? When did you see the light, Uncle?’

  ‘Stop this, Umar!’ his cousin shouted. ‘What is the use of all this talk? The Bishop is only trying to help us.’

  ‘I am not angry with you, Umar bin Abdallah. I like your spirit—it reminds me very much of my own father. But there is a law for those who engage in politics. They must pay some attention to the real world and what goes on there. Every circumstance that accompanies and succeeds an event must be studied in detail. That is what I learnt from my tutor, when I was Yazid’s age. We used to have our lessons in that courtyard through which the water flows and which your family loves so much. It was always in the afternoon, when it was drenched in sunshine.

  ‘I was taught never to base my views on speculation, but to make my thoughts conform to the realities that existed in the world outside. It was impossible for Gharnata to continue its existence. An Islamic oasis in a Christian desert. That is what you said to me three months before the surrender. Do you recall my reply?’

  ‘Only too well,’ muttered Umar, mimicking the old man. ‘“If what you say is true, Umar bin Abdallah, then it cannot go on like this. The oasis must be captured by the warriors of the desert.” Yes, Uncle. I remember. Tell me something ...’

  ‘No! You tell me something. Do you want our family estates to be confiscated? Do you want Zuhayr and yourself killed, Zubayda and the girls annexed to form part of your murderer’s household, Yazid enslaved by some priest and misused as an altar boy? Answer me!’

  Umar was trembling. He sipped some water and just stared at Miguel.

  ‘Well?’ the Bishop of Qurtuba continued. ‘Why do y
ou not speak? There is still time. That is why I used all my powers of persuasion to organize your meeting in the al-Hamra this morning. That is why I have persuaded Cisneros to come and perform the baptisms in the village. That is the only road to survival, my boy. Do you think I converted and became a Bishop because I saw a vision? The only vision I saw was of the destruction of our family. My decision was determined by politics, not religion.’

  ‘And yet,’ said Umar, ‘the Bishop’s gown sits easily on you. It’s as if you had worn it since birth.’

  ‘Mock as much as you like, my nephew, but make the right decision. Remember what the Prophet once said: Trust in God, but tether your camel first. I will give you another piece of information, though if it were to become known the Inquisition would demand my head. I still make my ablutions and bow before Mecca every Friday.’

  Both Miguel’s nephews were startled, which made him chuckle.

  ‘In primitive times one must learn the art of being primitive. That is why I joined the Church of Rome, even though I still remain convinced that our way of seeing the world is much closer to the truth. I ask you to do the same. Your cousin and his family have already agreed. I will baptize them myself tomorrow. Why do you not stay and observe the ceremony? It is over before you can say ...’

  ‘There is no Allah but Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet?’

  ‘Exactly. You can carry on saying that to yourself every day.’

  ‘Better to die free than live like a slave.’

  ‘It is stupidity of this very sort which led to the defeat of your faith in this peninsula.’

  Umar looked at his cousin, but Ibn Hisham averted his face.

  ‘Why?’ Umar shouted at him. ‘Why did you not tell me? It is like being stabbed in the heart.’