Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree (24 page)

‘When he was charged with heresy he merely looked his accuser in the eye and said:

I lift my voice to utter lies absurd
,

But when I speak the truth, my hushed tones are barely heard.

‘Tell me, Abu Zaid,’ Zuhayr asked. ‘Do you believe in our faith?’

‘All religions are a dark labyrinth. Men are religious through force of habit. They never pause to ask whether what they believe is true. Divine revelation is deeply ingrained in our mind. After all it was the ancients who invented fables and called them a religion. Musa, Isa and our own Prophet Mohammed were great leaders of their people in times of trouble. More than that I do not believe.’

It was this exchange that decided Zuhayr on his course of action. These people were impious rogues. How could they possibly hope to remove the Christians from Gharnata if they themselves were unbelievers? Once again he was irritated by Abu Zaid’s voice, which indicated that his thoughts had been read.

‘You are wondering how people like us can ever defeat the Christians, but ask yourself once again how it has come to pass that the most ardent defenders of the faith have failed in this very task.’

‘I won’t argue any more,’ replied Zuhayr. ‘My mind is decided. I will take my leave now and join my friends who await me in Gharnata.’

He rose and picked up his sword. Fatima and the others followed him out into the cold air. It was getting late and Zuhayr was determined to reach his destination before sunset.

‘Peace be upon you, Zuhayr bin Umar,’ said Abu Zaid as he embraced the young man in farewell. ‘And remember, if you change your mind and wish to join us, ride to the al-Pujarras till you come to a tiny village called al-Basit. Mention my name to the first person you meet and within a day I shall be with you. May God protect you!’

Zuhayr mounted his horse, raised his cupped right hand to his forehead in a salute, and within a few minutes found himself back on the road to Gharnata. He was glad to be alone again, away from the illicit company of heretics and thieves. He had enjoyed the experience, but he felt as unclean as he always did after he had been with Umayma. He expanded his lungs and breathed in the fresh mountain air to cleanse his insides.

He saw the city as he reached the top of a hill. In the old days when he was riding to court with his father’s entourage, they would stop here and drink in the view. His father would usually recount a tale from the days of old Sultan Abul Hassan. Then they would race down the slope in childish abandon. Once the gates were reached, dignity would be restored. For a moment Zuhayr was tempted to charge down the hillside, but better sense prevailed. Christian soldiers were posted at every entrance to the city. He had to behave in as calm a fashion as his brain would permit. As he reached the city gates he wondered what Ibn Daud would have made of his strange encounter with the bandits. Ibn Daud was such a know-all, but had he ever heard of al-Ma’ari?

The Christian sentries stared hard at the young man coming towards them. From the quality of his robes and the silk turban which graced his head, they saw that he was a nobleman, a Moorish knight probably here to visit a lover. From the fact that he openly carried a sword they deduced that he was no criminal intent on murder. Zuhayr saw them inspecting him and slowed his horse down even further, but the soldiers did not even bother to stop him. He acknowledged their presence with a slight nod of the chin, an action subconsciously inherited from his father. The soldiers smiled and waved him on.

As he rode into the town, Zuhayr felt serene once again. The confusion unleashed by that unexpected meeting with the heretics a few hours ago already seemed like a strange dream. In the old days or even a month ago, Zuhayr would have headed straight to the house of his uncle, Ibn Hisham, but today it was something that could not even be considered. Not because Ibn Hisham had become Pedro al-Gharnata, a converso, but because Zuhayr did not wish to endanger his uncle’s family.

His dozen or so followers had reached Gharnata the previous day, and those who did not have friends or relations in the city were settled in rooms at the Funduq. To stay in a rest-house in a city full of friends and relations, and a city which he knew so well, seemed unreal. And yet it concentrated his mind on what he hoped to achieve. He did not wish to feel at home in Gharnata on this particular visit. He wanted during every minute of the day and night he spent here to be reminded of the tasks that lay ahead. In his fantasy, Zuhayr saw his future as the standard-bearer of a counter-attack which true Believers would launch against the new state under construction. Against the she-devil Isabella and the lecherous Ferdinand. Against the evil Ximenes. Against them all.

Later that evening Zuhayr’s comrades came to welcome him to the city. He had been given one of the more comfortable rooms. A six-branched brass lantern decorated with an unusually intricate pattern hung from the ceiling. A soft light emanated from the oil burners. In the centre of the room stood an earthenware brazier, densely packed with burning coal. In one corner there was a handsome bed, covered with a silken green and mauve quilt. The eight young men were all sitting on a giant prayer mat which covered the floor in the corner opposite to the bed.

Zuhayr knew them well. They had grown up together. There were the two brothers from the family of the gold merchant, Ibn Mansur; the son of the herbalist, Mohammed bin Basit; Ibn Amin, the youngest son of the Jewish physician assigned to the Captain-General; and three of the young toughs from al-Hudayl who had arrived in Gharnata on the previous day. The reconquest itself had not changed the pattern of these young men’s lives. Till the arrival of the man with a bishop’s hat and a black heart, they had continued to lead a carefree existence. Ximenes de Cisneros had compelled them to think seriously for the first time in their lives. For this, at least, they should have been grateful to him. But the prelate had threatened their entire way of life. For this they hated him.

Nature had not intended any of these men to become conspirators. When they first arrived in Zuhayr’s room all of them were feeling tense and self-conscious. Their faces were glum. Zuhayr saw the state they were in and made them feel at home by inaugurating a round of restorative gossip. Once they had dissected the private lives of their contemporaries, they became more cheerful, almost like their old selves.

Ibn Amin was the only one who had refrained from the animated discussion taking place around him. He was not even listening. He was thinking of the horrors that lay ahead, and he spoke with anger in his voice.

‘By the time they’ve finished with us, they will not have left us any eyes to weep or tongues to scream. On his own the Captain-General would leave us be. It is the priest who is the problem.’

This was followed by a chorus of complaints. Inquisitors from Kashtalla had been seen in the city. There had been inquiries as to whether the conversions which were taking place were genuine or not. Spies had been posted outside the homes of conversos to see whether they went to work on Fridays, how often they bathed, whether new-born boys were being circumcised and so on. There had been several incidents of soldiers insulting and even molesting Muslim women.

‘Ever since this cursed priest entered our town,’ said Ibn Basit, the herbalist’s son, ‘they have been making an inventory of all the property and wealth in the hands of the Moors and the Jews. There is no doubt they will take everything away unless we convert.’

‘My father says that even if we do convert they will find other means to steal our property.’ The speaker was Salman bin Mohammed, the elder of the gold merchant’s two sons. ‘Look at what they’ve done to the Jews.’

‘Those bloodsuckers in Rome who set themselves up as Popes would sell the Virgin Mary herself to line their pockets,’ muttered Ibn Amin. ‘The Spanish Church is only following the example of its Holy Father.’

‘But at our expense!’ said Ibn Basit.

Ever since the fall of Gharnata, Zuhayr had been a silent witness at many such discussions in Gharnata and al-Hudayl. Usually his father or uncle or some village elder directed the discussion with a carefully timed intervention. Zuhayr was tired. The wind was beginning to penetrate the shutters and the brazier would soon run out of coal. The servants of the Funduq had gone to bed. He wanted to sleep, but he knew that the conversation could meander on in the quivering lamplight till the early hours unless he brought matters to a head and insisted on certain decisions being made tonight.

‘You see, my friends, we are not difficult people to understand. It is true that those amongst us who live on landed estates in the country have, over the centuries, become cocooned in a world which is very different to life in the cities. Here your life revolves round the market. Our memories and hopes are all connected with the land and those who work on it. Often there are things which please us country people which none of you would care about. We have cultivated this land for centuries. We produced the food that fed Qurtuba, Ishbiliya and Gharnata. This enriched the soil in the towns. A culture grew which the Christians can burn, but will never match. We opened the doors and the light which shone from our cities illuminated this whole continent. Now they want to take it all away from us. We are not even considered worthy to be permitted a few small enclaves where we can live in peace. It is this fact which has brought us together. Town and country will die the same death. Your traders and all your professions, our weavers and peasants—all are faced with extinction.’

The others looked at him in astonishment. They felt that al-Fahl had matured beyond recognition. He noticed the new-found respect reflected in their eyes. If he had spoken like this even two years ago, one of them would have roared with laughter and suggested a quick visit to the male brothel where such loftiness of thought could be transcended by a more active choreography. Not today. They could sense that Zuhayr was not play-acting. They were only too well aware of the changes that had brought about this transformation in all of them. They had, however, no way of knowing that it was his curious encounter with the al-Ma’ari clan, even more than the tragedy of al-Andalus, which had sharpened his mind and alerted his senses. Zuhayr felt it was time to unveil the plan.

‘We have had many discussions in our village. There are now twenty volunteers from al-Hudayl present in this town. The number may be small, but we are all dedicated. The first thing that needs to be done is to build a force of three or four hundred knights who will challenge the Christians to armed combat, every single day in the Bab al-Ramla. The sight of this conflict will excite the passions of the populace and we will have an uprising before they can send reinforcements to the city. We will fight the war from which our Sultan flinched.’

Ibn Basit was blunt in his rejection of the plan.

‘Zuhayr bin Umar, you have surprised me twice this evening. First by your intelligence and second by your stupidity. I agree with you that the Christians want to destroy us completely, but you want to make it easier for them. You want us all to dress up and play their game. Chivalry is a thing of the past—that is, if it ever really existed and was not a chronicler’s invention. Even if we defeated them—and I am not at all sure that our ardour could compete with their butcher’s skills—it would still make no difference. None whatsoever. Our only hope is to prepare our men and take them out of the city to the al-Pujarras. From there we must send ambassadors to establish links with believers in Balansiya and other cities and prepare a rebellion which will erupt simultaneously throughout the peninsula. This is the signal for which the Sultan in Istanbul has been waiting. Our brothers will come to our aid.’

Zuhayr looked around for support, but none was forthcoming. Then Ibn Amin spoke.

‘Both Ibn Basit and my old friend Zuhayr are living in a world of dreams. Basit’s vision is perhaps more realistic, but equally remote from our realities. I have a very simple proposal. Let us cut off the head of the snake. Others will come in his place, but they will be more careful. What I am suggesting is not very complicated and is easy to accomplish. I propose that we ambush Ximenes de Cisneros, kill him and display his head on the city walls. I know he is guarded by soldiers, but they are not many and we would have surprise on our side.’

‘It is an unworthy thought,’ said Zuhayr in a very sombre tone.

‘But I like the idea,’ said Ibn Basit. ‘It has one great merit. We can actually carry it out ourselves. I suggest we prepare our plan carefully over the next few days and meet again to agree on the timing and method.’

Ibn Amin’s suggestion had enlivened the evening. Everyone present spoke with passion. Zuhayr reflected on the future and warned of a repetition of al-Hama in the old quarter of Gharnata. They could say farewell to any thought of victory, farewell to any notion of finding some support amongst the Dominicans. If Cisneros was killed he would become a martyr. Rome would beatify him. Isabella would avenge her confessor’s death in an orgy of blood which would make al-Hama pale in comparison. Despite the intellectual strength of his arguments, Zuhayr found himself totally isolated. Even his followers from al-Hudayl were impressed by the stark simplicity of the plan to assassinate Cisneros. It was on the basis of this rickety enthusiasm that Zuhayr accepted defeat. He would not be party to a killing which went against every principle of chivalry, but nor would he try to obstruct their plans.

‘You are too touchy and proud,’ Ibn Basit said to him. ‘The old days will never return. You are used to your shirts being washed in rose-water and dried with a sprinkling of lavender. I am telling you that everything will be washed in blood unless we decapitate these beasts which Allah has sent to test our will.’

After they had gone, Zuhayr washed himself and went to bed, but sleep would not come. Once again he was racked by doubts. Perhaps he should ride out of the city and link his fate to that of the al-Ma’aris. Perhaps he should just go home and warn his father of the catastrophe that threatened them all. Or, and this thought shocked him greatly, should he flee to Qurtuba and ask Great-Uncle Miguel to baptize him?