Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree (13 page)

‘Could anything be worse than what we have just experienced, Umar? They set our culture on fire. Nothing more they can do has the power to hurt me. Being tied to a stake and stoned to death would be a relief by comparison.’

‘Is that why you decided to convert?’

‘No, a thousand times no. It was for my family. For their future.’

‘When I think of the future,’ Umar confessed, ‘I no longer see the deep blue sky. There is no more clarity. All I see is a thick mist, a primal darkness enveloping us all, and in the distant layer of my dreams I recognize the beckoning shores of Africa. I must rest now and say farewell. For tomorrow I will leave before all of you are out of bed.’

‘How can you be so cruel? We will all be up for the morning prayers.’

‘Even on the day of your baptism?’

‘Especially on that day.’

‘Till the morning then. Peace be upon you.’

‘Peace be upon you.’

Ibn Hisham paused for a moment.

‘Umar?’

‘Yes.’

He moved quickly and embraced Umar, who remained passive, his arms by his side. Then as his cousin began to weep again, Umar hugged him and held him tight. They kissed each other’s cheeks and Ibn Hisham led Umar to his room. It was a chamber reserved exclusively for the use of Umar bin Abdallah.

Umar could not sleep. His head was alive with anxious voices. The fatal poison was spreading every day. Despite his public display of firmness, he was racked with uncertainties. Was it fair to expose his children to decades of torture, exile and even death? What right had he to impose his choice on them? Had he raised children only to hand them over to the executioners?

His head began to roar like the noise of an underground river. The savage torments of memory. He was mourning for the forgotten years. The springtime of his life. Ibn Hisham had been with him when he first saw Zubayda, a cape round her shoulders, wandering like a lost soul in the gardens near the al-Hamra. As long as he lived he would never forget that scene. A ray of sunlight had filtered through the foliage to turn her red hair to gold. What struck him at once was her freshness—not a trace of the voluptuous indolence that marred so many of the women in his family. Entranced by her beauty, he had been rooted to the spot. He wanted to go and touch her hair, to hear her speak, to see how the shape of her eyes might alter when she smiled, but he controlled himself. It was forbidden to pluck ripening apricots. On his own he might have let her go and never seen her again. It was Ibn Hisham who had given him the courage to approach her and, in the months that followed, it was Ibn Hisham who kept watch over their clandestine trysts.

Both sides of the pillow were warm when Umar finally fell asleep. His last conscious thought had been a determination to rise well before dawn and ride back to al-Hudayl. He was not prepared for the emotional upheaval of a second parting. He did not want to see the helpless eyes of his friend pleading silently for mercy.

And there was another reason. He wanted to relive the journeys of his lost youth: to ride home in the cleansing air, far removed from the reality of Miguel’s sordid baptisms; to feel the first rays of the morning sun, deflected by the mountain peaks; and to feast his eyes on the inexhaustible reserves of blue skies. Just before sleep finally overpowered him, Umar had a strong sensation that he would not see Ibn Hisham again.

‘T
RUTH CANNOT CONTRADICT TRUTH
. True or false, Zuhayr al-Fahl?’

‘True. How could it be otherwise? It is written in the al-koran, is it not?’

‘Is that the only reason it is true?’

‘Well ... I mean, if it is written in the al-koran ... Listen old man, I did not come here today to debate blasphemy!’

‘I will ask you another question. Is it legitimate to unite what is given by reason and that which is provided by tradition?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You suppose so! Do they teach you nothing these days? Bearded fools! I pose a dilemma which has confused our theologians for centuries and all you can say is “I suppose so.” Not good enough. In my day young men were taught to be more rigorous. Have you never read the writings of Ibn Rushd, one of our greatest thinkers? A truly great man who the Christians of Europe know as Averroës? You must have read his books. There are four of them in your father’s library.’

Zuhayr felt embarrassed and humiliated.

‘I was taught them, but in such a way that they made no sense to me. My teacher said that Ibn Rushd may have been a learned man, but he was a heretic!’

‘How the ignorant spread ignorance. The accusation was false. Ibn Rushd was a great philosopher, imbued with genius. He was wrong, in my opinion, but not for the reasons given by the fool who was hired to teach you theology. In order to resolve what he thought was the contradiction between reason and tradition, he accepted the teachings of the mystics. There were apparent meanings and hidden meanings. Now it is true that appearance and reality are not always the same, but Ibn Rushd insisted that allegorical interpretations were a necessary corollary to the truth. That was a great pity, but I do not think that in stating it he was inspired by any base motives.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Zuhayr with irritation. ‘He may have felt that it was the only way to extend knowledge and survive.’

‘He was completely sincere,’ al-Zindiq asserted with a certainty derived from old age. ‘He once said that what had hurt him the most in his life was when he took his son for Friday prayers and a crowd of turbulent illiterates threw them out. It was not just the humiliation, which undoubtedly upset him, but the knowledge that the passions of the uneducated were about to drown the most modern religion in the world. As for myself, I think Ibn Rushd was not heretical enough. He accepted the idea of a Universe completely in thrall to God.’

Zuhayr shivered.

‘Are you cold boy?’

‘No, it is your words that frighten me. I did not come here to discuss philosophy or trade theological insults with you. If you wish to test your ideas we can organize a grand debate in the outer courtyard of our house between you and the Imam from the mosque, but with all of us as the judges. I am sure my sister Hind will defend you, but be careful. Her support is not dissimilar to that provided by a rope to a hanging man!’

Al-Zindiq laughed. ‘I am sorry. When you arrived so suddenly without warning I was working on a manuscript. My whole life’s work, which is an attempt to draw together all the strands of the theological wars which have plagued our religion. My head was so full of those thoughts that I began to inflict them on you. Now tell me all about your visit to Gharnata.’

Zuhayr sighed with relief. He recounted the events of the last few days without sparing a single detail. As he spoke about how they had decided not to accept any further humiliations without resistance, al-Zindiq’s ear caught the note of a familiar passion. How often he had heard young men in their prime eager to lay down their lives to protect their honour. He did not want another life wasted. He looked at Zuhayr and an image of the young man in a white shroud flashed through his head. Al-Zindiq trembled. Zuhayr misjudged the slight movement. He thought that, for once, he had infected the sage with some of his excitement.

‘What is to be done, al-Zindiq? What is your advice?’

Zuhayr was expecting his friends from Gharnata later that day. It would inspire them with so much confidence if they knew that the old man had decided to back their project. He had been talking for well over an hour, outlining Musa’s objections to their plan and Ibn Daud’s response to such feeble-mindedness. It was time he let al-Zindiq talk.

Zuhayr had never needed the old man as much as he did now, for underneath the bravado, the great-grandson of Ibn Farid was racked with serious doubts. What if they all perished in the attempt? If the result of their deaths was the rebirth of Muslim Gharnata, then the sacrifice would have been worth every life, but was that likely? Suppose their rashness led to the elimination of every believer in the old kingdom, their lives cut short by the knights of Ximenes de Cisneros? Zuhayr was still not sure that it was the right time to depart from this world.

Al-Zindiq began his counter-offensive by asking what appeared to be an innocent question.

‘So Ibn Daud al-Misri says he is the great-grandson of Ibn Khaldun?’

Zuhayr nodded eagerly.

‘Why that suspicious tone? How can you doubt his word without having ever seen him?’

‘He sounds headstrong and rash. His great-grandfather would not have suggested such a course of action. He would have argued that without a strong sense of social solidarity in the camp of the believers, there could be no victory. It was the absence of this solidarity amongst the followers of the Prophet that led to the decline in al-Andalus. How can you recreate what no longer exists? Their armies will crush you. It will be like an elephant stepping on an ant.’

‘We know that, but it is our only hope. Ibn Daud said that a people which is defeated and subjugated by others soon disappears.’

‘Spoken like his great-grandfather! But does he not understand that we have already been defeated and are now being subjugated? Bring him to me. Bring them all to me tonight and let us discuss the matter again and with the seriousness that it deserves. It is not your lives alone that could be lost. A great deal more is at stake. Does your father know?’

Zuhayr shook his head.

‘I would like to tell him, but Great-Uncle Miguel has arrived to see Great-Aunt Zahra ...’

Zuhayr stopped himself, but it was too late. The forbidden name had been uttered. He looked at al-Zindiq who smiled. ‘I was wondering when you intended to mention her. The village is talking of nothing else. It does not matter now, boy. It was a long time ago. I was going to tell you the last time, but your servant’s arrival sealed my lips. So now you know why al-Zindiq is banished, but also provided with food.’

‘If you loved her, why did you not go to Qurtuba and find her? She would have married you.’

‘The heat and cold that remains in our body is never constant, Ibn Umar. At first I was frightened of her father—he had threatened to slay me if I was seen near Qurtuba. But there was something else.’

‘What?’

‘Perhaps Zahra did love me all those years ago. Perhaps. She had strange ways of demonstrating her affection.’

Zuhayr was perplexed.

‘What do you mean?’

After three months in Qurtuba she was seen climbing atop every Christian nobleman who smiled at her. This went on for many years. Too many years. When I heard the stories of her adventures I fell ill for a long time, but I recovered. It cured me. The malady disappeared. I felt free again, even though my heart forgot what the sun used to look like.’

‘And you forgot Great-Aunt Zahra?’

‘I did not say that, did I? How could I ever forget? But the gates were tightly closed. Then I heard other stories about similar incidents with other men. After that I stuffed my ears with cotton wool. Many, many years later Amira told me that the lady was in the Gharnata maristan.’

‘I think what she did not tell you was that Great-Aunt Zahra was as sane as you or me. She was sent there on the express orders of her father, the year before he died. He believed that her behaviour was designed explicitly to punish him for forbidding her to marry you. That is what my mother told me.’

‘Great men like Ibn Farid always saw themselves at the centre of everything. Could he not see that the Lady Zahra was punishing herself?’

‘She was quite moved to see her brother, you know. Even though Ama told us that she used to loathe Miguel. When we asked why, Ama’s face became as hard as a rock. Did Miguel play any part in your banishment, al-Zindiq? I’m sure he must have spied on you.’

Al-Zindiq cupped his face in his hands and stared downwards at the earth. Then he raised his head and Zuhayr saw the pain clearly reflected in his eyes. His wrinkled face had suddenly become taut. How strange, thought Zuhayr, he reacts exactly like Ama.

‘I am sorry, old man. I did not mean to revive hurtful memories. Forgive me.’

Al-Zindiq spoke in a strange voice.

‘For you, Miguel is an apostate who betrayed the colour green for their hymns and wooden icons. You see him swaggering around as the Bishop of Qurtuba, blaspheming against your religion, and you are ashamed that he is related to you. Am I not correct?’

Zuhayr nodded earnestly.

‘Yet what if I were to tell you that as a boy, Meekal al-Malek was full of life and fun? Far from spying on me and running to tell tales to his father, he wanted Zahra and me to be happy. He would play chess with such passion that if he had done nothing else he would still be remembered as the inventor of at least three opening moves which could not be matched by the masters of the game in this peninsula, let alone the likes of me or even the Dwarf’s father, who was a player of some distinction. He would often engage in philosophical battles with his tutors, which revealed such a precocious streak that it frightened all of us, especially his mother. There was so much promise in him that Ibn Farid used to say to the Lady Asma: “Do not let the maids stare at him in admiration. They will afflict him with the Evil Eye.” Later, after what happened, many of us recalled what his father had said so many years ago. It was my mother, Lady Asma’s maid and confidante, who used to look after Miguel. He was often in our quarters and I was very fond of him.’

‘How then did his ship sink to the bottom?’ asked Zuhayr. ‘What is the mystery? How did he get ill? What happened, al-Zindiq?’

‘Are you sure you want to know? There are some things which are best left alone.’

‘I must know, and you are the only one who will tell me.’

The old man sighed. He knew that this was not true. Amira probably knew much more than he had ever been told, but whether either of them knew everything was open to question.

Two women, and they alone, had known the whole truth. Lady Asma and her trusted serving woman. My much-loved mother, thought this lonely old man on the top of the hill. Both were dead, and Wajid al-Zindiq was certain that his mother had been poisoned. The family of Hudayl did not trust in fate. They had felt that only the cemetery could ensure total silence. Who had taken the decision? Al-Zindiq did not believe for a moment that it could have been Umar’s father, Abdallah bin Farid. It was not in his character or temperament. Perhaps it had been Hisham of Gharnata, a great believer in tying up loose ends. It made no difference except that the exact details of what happened had died with her.