Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree (17 page)

For a few seconds they were stunned. It was a dangerously heretical idea, and the village was so isolated from Gharnata, let alone the rest of the peninsula, that they could not follow his line of reasoning. They recovered rapidly and a spontaneous chant rose from the ground on which they sat and reached for the sky.

‘There is only one Allah and he is Allah and Mohammed is His Prophet.’

Umar’s eyes moistened. He nodded his head and, with a sad smile, addressed them once again.

‘I thought that would be your response, but I feel it is my duty to warn you that the Christian kings who now rule over us may not permit us the freedom to worship Allah for much longer. In any case the choice must be yours.

‘The second possibility is to resist any incursion on our lands and fight to the death. Your death. My death. The death of all of us and the dishonouring of our mothers, wives, sisters and daughters. It is an honourable choice, and if that is what you decide will fight alongside you, though I must be honest. I will send the women and children in my family to a safe refuge before the battle and I would advise you to do the same. What is your feeling on this matter? How many of you wish to die sword in hand?’

Once again they were silent, but this time without anger. The old men looked at each other. Then, from somewhere in the middle of the assembly, five young men stood up. In the front row Zuhayr al-Fahl jumped to his feet. The sight of the young master offering his life for the cause created a miniature sensation. A few dozen young men rose to their feet, but not Ibn Daud. His thoughts had wandered to Hind, whose infectious laughter was still ringing in his head. Yazid was torn between his father and his brother. He agonized for a few minutes and then stood up and clutched Zuhayr’s hand. This gesture, in particular, moved everyone present, but only a minority was on its feet. Umar was greatly relieved. Suicide was not a course that he favoured. He signalled to his sons that they should sit down and their followers followed suit. Umar cleared his throat.

‘The last option is to leave our lands and our homes in this village which our forefathers built when there was nothing but large rocks which covered the earth. It was they who cleared the ground. It was they who found the water and planted the seed. It was they who saw the earth yield a rich harvest. My heart tells me this is the worst of all choices, but my head warns that it may be the only way to preserve ourselves. It may not happen, but we should be mentally prepared to leave al-Hudayl.’

A half-scream in a choked voice interrupted Umar.

‘And go where? Where? Where?’

Umar sighed.

‘It is safer to climb the stairs step by step. I do not yet know the answer to your question. All I wish to do is to make it clear to you that the cost of believing in what we believe will involve sacrifices. The question we will have to ask ourselves is whether to live here as unbelievers or to find a place where we can worship Allah in peace. I have nothing more to say, but if any of you wish to speak and present us with a more acceptable choice then now is the time. Speak while your lips are free.’

With these words Umar sat down next to Yazid. He hugged his young son and kissed him on the head. Yazid clasped his father’s hand and held on to it, much as a drowning person grasps anything that is afloat.

Umar’s words had made a deep impression. For a while nobody spoke. Then Ibn Zaydun, who called himself Wajid al-Zindiq, rose in his place and enquired if he could speak his mind. Umar turned round and nodded vigorously. The older men present frowned and stroked their beards. They knew Ibn Zaydun as a sceptic who had poisoned a large number of young minds. But, they reasoned to themselves, this was a crisis and even heretics had a right to speak their minds. The voice, which was so familiar to Zuhayr al-Fahl, now began to crackle with indignation.

‘For twenty years I have tried to tell you that it was necessary to take precautions. That blind faith alone would not get us anywhere. You thought that the Sultans would last till the Day of Judgement. When I warned you that he who eats the Sultan’s soup ends up with his own lips on fire, you mocked me, denounced me as a heretic, an apostate, an unbeliever who had lost his mind.

‘And now it is too late. All the wells are poisoned. There is no more pure water in the whole of this peninsula. That is what Umar bin Abdallah has been trying to tell you for the last hour. Instead of looking to the future we Muslims have always turned to the past. We still sing songs of the time when our tents first rose in these valleys, when we united in a staunch defence of our creed, when our pure white banners returned from the battlefield a different colour, drenched in the blood of the enemy. And how many cups of wine were drained in this village alone to celebrate our victories.

‘After seventy years, I am tired of living. When death comes stumbling my way, like a night-blind camel, I will not move aside. Better to die in complete possession of my senses than be trampled on when my mind has already ceased to exist. And what holds true for an individual applies equally to a community ...’

‘Old man!’ cried Zuhayr in agony. ‘What makes you think that we are ready to die?’

‘Zuhayr bin Umar,’ al-Zindiq replied with a steady voice. ‘I was speaking in symbols. The only way for you and your children and their children to survive in the lands now occupied by the Castilians is to accept that the religion of your fathers and their fathers is on the eve of its demise. Our shrouds have already been prepared.’

This remark annoyed the faithful. There were some angry faces as a familiar chant was hurled at the sceptic.

‘There is only one Allah and he is Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet.’

‘Yes,’ replied the old man. ‘That is what we have been saying for centuries but Queen Isabella and her Confessor do not agree with you. If you go on repeating this the Christians will tear open your hearts with straight and hard-shafted spears.’

‘Al-Zindiq,’ shouted Ibn Hasd from the back of the mosque. ‘Perhaps what you say is true, but in this village we have lived at peace for five hundred years. Jews have been tormented elsewhere, but never here. Christians have bathed in the same baths as Jews and Muslims. Might the Castilians not leave us alone if we do nothing to harm them?’

‘It is unlikely, my friend,’ replied the sage. ‘What is good for the liver is bad for the spleen. Their Archbishop will argue that if even one example is permitted to survive it will encourage others. After all if we are allowed to carry on as before on these estates, sooner or later, when other kings and queens, less given to violence, are on the throne, our existence might well encourage them to relax the restrictions against the followers of Hazrat Musa and Mohammed, may peace be upon him. They wish to leave nothing of us. That is all I wish to say. I thank you Umar bin Abdallah for letting my voice be heard.’

As al-Zindiq began to walk away, Umar put Yazid on his lap and beckoned the old man to sit by his side. As he settled down on the prayer rug, Umar whispered in his ear: ‘Come and eat with us tonight, Ibn Zaydun. My aunt wishes it so.’

For once al-Zindiq was taken by surprise as he held back his emotions and nodded silently. Then Umar rose once again.

‘If there is nobody else who wishes to speak, let us disperse, but remember that the choice is yours. You are free to do as you wish and I will help in any way I can. Peace be upon you.’

‘And peace be upon you,’ came the collective reply.

Then up rose the young preacher and recited a surá from the al-koran, which they all, including the Christians and Jews present, repeated after him. All that is except al-Zindiq.

‘Say: “O Unbelievers,

I worship not that which ye worship,

And ye worship not that which I worship,

Neither will I worship that which ye worship,

Nor will ye worship that which I worship.

Ye have your religion and I have my religion.”’

As the meeting dispersed, al-Zindiq muttered to himself: ‘The creator must have been suffering from indigestion on the day he dictated those lines. The rhythm is broken.’

Ibn Daud had overheard him and could not restrain a smile. ‘The punishment for apostasy is death.’

‘Yes,’ replied al-Zindiq, staring straight into the young man’s green eyes, ‘but no
qadi
alive would ever pass such a sentence today. Are you the one who calls himself the grandson of Ibn Khaldun?’

‘I am,’ replied Ibn Daud as they walked out of the mosque.

‘Strange,’ reflected al-Zindiq, ‘when all his family perished on the sea.’

‘He lived with another, my grandmother, in later years.’

‘Interesting. Perhaps we can discuss his work tonight? After supper?’

‘Zuhayr has told me that you have studied his books and much else besides. I have no desire to quarrel with you or compete with your knowledge. I myself am still at the stage of learning.’

Ibn Daud saluted his interlocutor and hurried to the spot where the horses had been tethered. He did not wish to keep his host waiting, but when he arrived he could only see Yazid and Zuhayr. The young boy was smiling. Zuhayr had a distant look on his face and frowned at Ibn Daud. He was angry with his new-found friend. In the hammam in Gharnata, Ibn Daud had fired their imaginations with his talk of an armed uprising against the occupiers. Here he had swayed with the wind. Zuhayr stared coldly at the Qahirene and wondered whether he believed in anything.

‘Where is your respected father?’ enquired the visitor, feeling slightly uneasy.

‘Attending to his business,’ snapped Zuhayr. ‘Are you ready?’

Umar had been surrounded by the elders of the village. They were anxious to discuss the future in much greater detail and in the privacy of a familiar house. It was for this reason that they had all repaired to the house of Ibn Hasd, the cobbler, where they were greeted with almond cakes and coffee, flavoured with cardamom seeds and sweetened with honey.

Zuhayr had been deeply disturbed by the events in the mosque. His anger was directed against himself. For the first time ever he had understood how grim the situation really was, and that there appeared to be no possibility of escape. Now he knew that any insurrection in Gharnata was doomed. He had learnt more from the looks of defeat and despair on the faces inside the mosque than from all the talk of Great-Uncle Miguel or Uncle Hisham, and yet ... And yet everything had been planned. It was too late.

Zuhayr appeared to forget that a guest was riding by his side. He nudged his horse gently in the stomach and the creature responded by a sudden burst of speed, which took Yazid by surprise. At first he thought his brother was trying to race him back to the house.

‘Al-Fahl! Al-Fahl! Wait for me,’ he grinned, and was about to race after his brother, but Ibn Daud stopped him.

‘I cannot ride like your brother and I need a guide.’

Yazid sighed and reined in his horse. He had realized that Zuhayr wanted to be alone. Perhaps he had arranged to meet some of the young men who wanted to fight. Yazid understood that he had to take his brother’s place. Otherwise Ibn Daud might imagine that they were being deliberately discourteous.

‘I suppose I had better accompany you home. My sister Hind would never forgive me if you were lost!’

‘Your sister Hind?’

‘Yes! She’s in love with you.’

I
N NOMINE DOMINI NOSTRI
Jesu Christi.

Most excellent, most Christian and most brave King and Queen of all Spain.

It is now eight whole years since the crescent was removed from the Alhambra and the last fortress belonging to the sect of Mahomet reconquered for our Holy Father. Your Highnesses asked me to respect the terms of the Capitulation signed by the Sultan and yourselves when he surrendered to a superior moral force. Her Majesty will recall her injunction to her most loyal servant: ‘As our most trusted Bishop you will be seen not solely as the servant of the Church, but as the eyes and ears of your King in Granada. You will behave in such a fashion that it can never be said that you brought dishonour to our name.’ I understood Her Majesty to mean that the followers of the false Prophet were to be treated kindly and permitted to worship in their usual fashion. I have never told Your Majesties an untruth. I believe that the kindness shown by my predecessor was misunderstood by the Moors. They showed no inclination to convert to our holy faith. It was for that reason that I decided they must be taught that the time was past for idolatries and heresies. Her Majesty will recall our discussions in Toledo, when I explained the nature of the al-koran. I stressed that the books of this sect and its rituals and superstitions were a bottomless sea. In every house, in every room, they display the commandments of their prophet in rhymed couplets. It was Her Grace who first expressed the view that such evil books and the poisonous doctrines contained within them should be consigned to the fires of hell. I do not believe that any other person in Granada could have organized the public burning of all the al-korans and everything else related to that book.

I am not suggesting that as an individual I am indispensable for the task assigned to me by Your Majesties and our Holy Church. How can any single person be essential to a Church such as ours? Nonetheless I took a vow when I became Archbishop of Toledo. I pledged that I would convert every follower of Mahomet to believe in our Lord Jesus Christ. I plead for your help to fulfill my vow and to be given all the powers necessary to execute my mission.

The Captain-General, that most noble Count of Tendilla whose family produced our most astute Cardinal Mendoza, my honoured predecessor, argues incessantly that since Your Majesties have won the war it is only a matter of time before the Moors adopt our language, customs and religion. When I pointed out to him that three Moorish women had been seen by one of my priests in the act of urinating over crucifixes which had been removed from church, he replied: ‘What else do you expect, Archbishop? After all, you decided to burn their books. This is their revenge. Blasphemous outrage, but better they do that than castrate you in the market-place.’