Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

by Tariq Ali

  Zuhayr’s head was bent in anguish. Why did the earth not open and swallow him painlessly? Even better if he could clamber on to his horse and ride back to al-Hudayl. But as he saw the despondent faces which surrounded him he knew that, whether he liked it or not, his future was now tied to theirs. They had all become victims of a collective fate. He could not leave them now. Their hearts were chained to each other. It was vital that no more time was lost.

  Ibn Basit was thinking on the same plane, and it was he who took the floor to bring the meeting to a conclusion. ‘My friends, it is time to go and make your farewells. Those of you who feel close to our leading families, go and warn them that the Captain-General is demanding hostages. If their older sons wish to go with us we will protect them as best we can. What time should we meet?’

  ‘Tomorrow at day-break.’ Zuhayr spoke with the voice of authority. ‘We shall ride away from here and join our friends in the al-Pujarras. They are already raising an army to join in the fight against the Christians. I shall meet you in the courtyard of the Funduq at the first call to prayer. Peace be upon you.’

  Zuhayr walked away with a confident stride, but he had never felt so alone in his entire life. ‘What a sad and gloomy fate I have assigned to myself,’ he murmured as he approached the entrance to the Funduq. He would have given anything to find al-Zindiq, share a flask of wine, and confide his fears and doubts regarding the future, but the old man had already left the city. Al-Zindiq was on his way to al-Hudayl, where the very next morning he would present a detailed report on what had taken place in Gharnata to Zuhayr’s anxious family.

  ‘Zuhayr bin Umar, may Allah protect you.’

  Zuhayr was startled. He could not see anyone. Then a figure moved out of the dark and stood directly in front of him. It was the old servant from his uncle’s house.

  ‘Peace be upon you, old friend. What brings you in this direction?’

  ‘The master would like you to share his meal tonight. I was told to bring you back with me.’

  ‘I will happily return with you,’ replied Zuhayr. ‘It would be a pleasure to see my uncle again.’

  Ibn Hisham was pacing up and down the outer courtyard, impatiently awaiting the arrival of his nephew. The events of the day had made him sad and nervous, but deep inside himself he was proud of the role played by Umar’s son. When Zuhayr entered his uncle held him close and kissed him on both cheeks.

  ‘I am angry with you, Zuhayr. You passed through this house on your way to some other destination. Since when has my brother’s son stayed at a lodging house in this city? This is your home! Answer, boy, before I have you whipped.’

  Despite himself, Zuhayr was moved. He smiled. It was an odd feeling. He felt guilty, as if he was ten years old again and had been surprised in the middle of an escapade by an adult.

  ‘I did not wish to embarrass you, Uncle. Why should you suffer for my actions? It was best that I stayed at the Funduq.’

  ‘What nonsense you talk. Does the fact of my conversion mean that I no longer have any blood relations? You need a bath. I will order some fresh clothes for you.’

  ‘And how is my aunt? My cousins?’ enquired Zuhayr as they walked towards the hammam.

  ‘They are in Ishbiliya staying in the same house as Kulthum. They will return in a few weeks. Your aunt is getting old and the mountain wind gives her rheumatism. It is much warmer in Ishbiliya.’

  After being scrubbed with soap and washed by two young servants, Zuhayr relaxed in the warm bath. He could have been at home. Despite what Hisham had said, there was no doubt but that he was endangering his uncle’s future. True, they had not been seen entering the house, but the servants would talk. They would boast to their friends that Zuhayr had dined with his converso uncle. By tomorrow it would reach the market in the shape of highly embellished gossip. Any one of the Archbishop’s spies was bound to pick it up.

  After their meal, which had been as simple and austere as usual, the conversation turned inevitably to a discussion of the plight in which their faith now found itself.

  ‘Our own fault, my son. Our own fault,’ declared Ibn Hisham without the shadow of a doubt. ‘We always look for answers in the actions of our enemies, but the fault is within ourselves. Success came too soon. Our Prophet died too soon, before he could consolidate the new order. His successors killed each other like the warring tribesmen that they were. Instead of assimilating the stable characteristics of civilizations which we conquered, we decided instead on imparting to them our own mercurial style. And so it was in al-Andalus. Fine but thoughtless gestures, inconsequential sacrifice of Muslim lives, empty chivalry ...’

  ‘Pardon the interruption, Uncle, but every word you have spoken could equally be applied to the Christians. Your explanation is insufficient.’

  And so the talk went on that night. Hisham could not satisfy his nephew and Zuhayr could not convince his uncle that it was time to take up arms again. It was obvious to Zuhayr that his uncle’s conversion was only a surface phenomenon. He spoke and behaved like a Muslim nobleman. Pork did not defile his table. The kitchen and the house were staffed by believers, and if the old servant was telling the truth then Hisham himself turned eastwards every day in secret prayers.

  ‘Do not waste your youth in mindless endeavours, Zuhayr. History has passed us by. Why can you not accept it?’

  ‘I will not lie back and passively accept the outrages they wish to impose on us. They are barbarians and barbarians have to be resisted. Better to die than become slaves of their Church.’

  ‘I have learnt something new in these last few months,’ Ibn Hisham confided. ‘In this new world which we inhabit there is also a new way of dying. In the old days we killed each other. The enemy killed us and it was over. But I have learnt that total indifference can be just as cruel a death as succumbing to a knight in armour.’

  ‘But you who always had so many friends ...’

  ‘They have all gone their separate ways. If we went by appearances alone it would seem that individuals can effortlessly survive cataclysms of the sort that we are experiencing, but life is always more complex. Everything changes inside ourselves. I converted for selfish reasons, but it has made me even more estranged. I work amongst them, but, however hard I try, I can never be of them.’

  ‘And I thought that in our entire family, only I understood what loneliness really meant.’

  ‘One must not complain. I have the most patient friends in the world. I talk most often these days to them. The stones in the courtyard.’

  The two men rose and Zuhayr embraced his uncle in farewell.

  ‘I’m glad I came to see you, Uncle. I will never forget this meeting.’

  ‘I fear it may have been our last supper.’

  Zuhayr lay in his bed and reviewed the events of the day. How brutally the Count had deflated their hopes. The Archbishop had won. Cunning, tenacious Cisneros. The city now belonged to him and he would destroy it from within. Kill the spirit of the Gharnatinos. Make them feel ugly and mediocre. That would be the end of Gharnata. Far better to raze it to the ground, leaving only that which existed at the beginning: a lovely plain, furrowed by streams and clothed in trees. It was the beauty which had attracted his ancestors. And it was here that they had built this city.

  His thoughts wandered to the evening spent with his uncle. Zuhayr had been surprised by Hisham’s bitterness and abjection, but it had also comforted him a great deal. If his uncle Hisham, a man of great wealth and intelligence, could find no satisfaction in becoming a Christian, then he, Zuhayr, was justified in the course he had chosen. What use was the opulence and splendour if inside yourself you were permanently poverty-stricken and miserable?

  That night Zuhayr was disturbed by a dream. He woke up in a sweat, trembling. He had seen the house in al-Hudayl swathed by a tent of white muslin. Yazid, the only one he could recognize, was laughing, but not as Zuhayr remembered him. It was the laugh of an old man. He was surrounded by giant chess pieces which had come to life and
were talking in a strange language. Slowly, they moved towards Yazid and began to throttle him. The eerie laughter turned into a rattle.

  Zuhayr lay there shivering. Sleep would not return. He stayed in the bed, wide awake, huddled in his quilt, desperately awaiting the first noises which come with the dawn.

  ‘There is only one Allah and it is Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet!’

  The same words. The same rhythm. Eight different voices. Eight echoes competing with each other. Eight mosques for the faithful today. And tomorrow? Zuhayr was already dressed. In the giant courtyard below he could already hear the sound of hoofs. His steed was saddled and a stable-boy, not much older than Yazid, was feeding it a lump of raw brown sugar. More hoofs entered the yard. He heard the voices of Ibn Basit and Ibn Amin.

  They rode out of the Funduq, through the tiny streets, in the livid light of dawn, just as Gharnata was beginning to come to life. Doors were opening as groups of men made haste to their mosques. As they passed some open doors, Zuhayr could see people busy at their ablutions, trying to wash away the cumulative stench of sleep.

  The city was no longer deserted, as it had been when Zuhayr had walked to the Funduq from his uncle’s establishment late last night but it was immersed in despair. Ibn Basit could not recall a time when so many people had hurried to attend morning prayers.

  Before the Reconquest it was the Friday afternoon prayers which had attracted the largest crowd—a social and political as well as a religious occasion. More often than not, the Imam would discuss political and military matters, leaving religion for those weeks when nothing else was happening. The mood was usually relaxed, in sharp contrast to the subdued silences of the people today.

  ‘Zuhayr al-Fahl,’ said Ibn Amin in an excited voice. ‘Ibn Basit and I have two gifts to deliver at the al-Hamra. Would you care to ride there with us? The others are waiting outside the city. The Forty have become the Three Hundred!’

  ‘What gifts?’ asked Zuhayr, who had noticed the exquisite wooden boxes sealed with silken ribbons. ‘The stench of perfume is overpowering.’

  ‘One box is for Ximenes,’ replied Ibn Basit, trying very hard to keep a serious face, ‘and the other is for the Count. It is a farewell present which these grandees will never forget.’

  Zuhayr regarded the gesture as unnecessary. It was taking chivalry to an absurd degree, but he agreed to accompany them. Within a few minutes they were at the gates of the palace.

  ‘Stop where you are!’ Two young soldiers drew their swords and rushed towards them. ‘What is your business?’

  ‘My name is Ibn Amin. Yesterday the Captain-General visited us in the city and invited us to have breakfast with him this morning. He made some requests and wanted our reply by this morning. We have brought a gift for him and for His Grace the Archbishop of Toledo. Unfortunately we cannot stay. Will you please convey our apologies and make sure that these gifts, a small token of our esteem, are delivered to the two gentlemen, the minute they have arisen.’

  The soldiers relaxed and accepted the gifts in good humour. The young men turned their horses and galloped away to join their fellow fighters, where they had gathered just outside the city. Soldiers at the gate watched with grim faces as they passed through.

  Three hundred armed men on horseback, most of them not yet twenty, cannot be expected to remain silent on the edge of change. There were screams, whisperings and excited laughter. The mountain air was chilly and both men and horses were swathed in steam. Anxious mothers, huddled in their shawls, were saying their farewells beneath the walls. Zuhayr frowned at the din, but his mood changed as he neared his troops. They were a magnificent sight, a sign that the Moors of Gharnata had not abandoned hope. As the three friends rode up to the assembled company, they were greeted by excited cries and a warm welcome. All were aware of the dangers that faced them, but despite that knowledge, spirits were high.

  ‘Did you deliver the presents?’ asked Ibn Wahab as they were leaving the city behind.

  Ibn Amin nodded and laughed.

  ‘In the name of Allah,’ asked Zuhayr, ‘what is the joke?’

  ‘You really want to know?’ teased Ibn Basit. ‘Ibn Amin, you tell him.’

  The son of the Count’s personal physician laughed so much at this suggestion that Zuhayr thought he would choke.

  ‘The stench of perfume! Your nose detected our crime,’ began Ibn Amin after he had calmed down. ‘In both those boxes, disguised by the attar of roses, is a rare delicacy for the consumption of the Archbishop and the Count. It has edible silver paper transferred on to its surface. What we have left them, Zuhayr al-Fahl, is a piece of our excrement. One, freshly delivered this morning from the bowels of this Jew you see before you, and the other, a somewhat staler offering, from the insides of a devout Moor, known to you as Ibn Basit. This fact, without mentioning our actual names, of course is made clear in a note addressed to both of them, in which we also express the hope that they will enjoy their breakfast.’

  It was too childish for words. Zuhayr tried his best not to laugh, but found it increasingly difficult to contain himself. He began to guffaw uncontrollably. It did not take long for word of the prank to spread to the entire group. Within a few minutes the gallant three hundred were engulfed by a wave of laughter.

  ‘And to think as I did,’ said Zuhayr, as he tried to calm himself down, ‘that you were being far too sentimental and chivalrous.’ This made his friends laugh again.

  They rode on for a few hours. The sun had risen. There was no wind at all. Capes and blankets were discarded and handed to the hundred or so servants who were attending their masters. It was after they had been riding for over two hours that they observed a small group of horsemen riding towards them.

  ‘Allahu Akbar! God is Great!’ shouted Zuhayr, and the chant was repeated by the young men of Gharnata.

  There was no reply from the horsemen. Zuhayr ordered his troop to halt, fearing an ambush. It was when the horsemen drew close that Zuhayr recognized them. His spirits rose considerably.

  ‘Abu Zaid al-Ma’ari!’ he shouted with pleasure. ‘Peace be upon you! You see I followed your advice after all and brought some other friends along.’

  ‘I am happy to see you, Zuhayr bin Umar. I knew you were headed this way. You had better follow us and get away from this particular track. It is too well known, and by this time there will already be soldiers on your tail, trying to determine where you will camp for the night.’

  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.’