Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree (7 page)

At last, thought Zuhayr, he is beginning to talk about himself; but before he could ask a question, the old man had moved on.

‘Lady Maryam was the most gentle of women, even though her tongue could be very cruel if any of the maids, except of course for your Ama, attempted even the tiniest degree of familiarity. I remember her so well. Sometimes she used to go and bathe in a large freshwater pool made by the river. She was preceded by six serving women and followed by another four maid-servants. They held sheets on either side of her to ensure total privacy. The party usually proceeded in silence unless Zahra happened to be with her. Then aunt and niece chattered away and the maids were permitted to laugh at Zahra’s remarks. The servants respected Maryam, but did not like her. Her dead sister’s children worshipped her blindly. For your grandfather and great-aunt she could do no wrong. They knew their father was not happy with her. They felt, the way children usually do, that whatever the problem was it went very deep, but they never stopped loving her.’

The old man stopped abruptly and peered into his listener’s troubled eyes.

‘Something is worrying you, young master? Do you wish to leave now and return another day? The story cannot run away.’

Zuhayr’s eyes had picked up a small figure on the horizon and the dust indicated it was a rider galloping on a mission. He suspected it was a messenger from al-Hudayl.

‘I fear we are about to be interrupted. If the man on horseback is a messenger from our house, I will return at sunrise tomorrow. Could you satisfy my curiosity on one question, before I leave today?’

‘Ask.’

‘Who are you, old man? Your mother served in our house, but who was your father? Could you be a member of our family?’

‘I am not sure. My mother was a piece of the dowry, a serving girl who came with the Lady Najma from Qurtuba when she married Ibn Farid. She must have been sixteen or seventeen years old at the time. My father? Who knows? My mother said that he was a gardener on your estates, who was killed in one of the battles near Malaka the year I was born. It is true that she was married to him, but Heaven alone knows if he was my father. In later years, after the sudden and mysterious death of Asma bint Dorothea and the strange circumstances of my own mother’s demise, I would hear stories about my real father. It was said the seed which produced me was planted by Ibn Farid. It would certainly explain his behaviour in later years, but if that had been the case my mother would have told me herself. I stopped caring much about it.’

Zuhayr was intrigued by this turn of events. He now remembered vaguely the stories Ama used to tell about the tragedy of the Lady Asma, but he could not even recall their outlines. He was desperate to stay and hear it all, but the dust seemed closer.

‘You are still concealing one important fact.’

‘What may that be?’

‘Your name, old man, your name.’

The old man’s head, which had been held erect for all this time, suddenly slumped as he contemplated the patterns on the rug. Then he looked up at Zuhayr and smiled.

‘I have long forgotten the name my mother gave me. Perhaps your Ama or the Dwarf will remember. For too many decades my friends and enemies have known me as Wajid al-Zindiq. That was the name I used when I wrote my first book. It is a name of which I am still very proud.’

‘You claimed you knew why they called me al-Fahl. I will have to think hard to come up with something equally sharp to explain to you why you acquired such a name.’

‘The answer is simple. It describes me well. I am, after all, a sceptic, an ecstatic freethinker!’

Both of them laughed. As the horseman arrived outside the cave, they stood up and Zuhayr, impulsive as usual, hugged the old man and kissed his cheeks. Al-Zindiq was moved by the gesture. Before he could say anything the messenger coughed gently.

‘Come in, man. Enter. Is it a message from my father?’ said Zuhayr.

The boy nodded. He was barely thirteen years old.

‘Excuse me, my lord, but the master says you must return at once. They were expecting you back for breakfast.’

‘Good. You climb on that mule you call a horse and ride back. Tell them I am on my way. Wait. I’ve changed my mind. Go back now. I will overtake you in a few minutes. I will greet my father myself. There are no messages.’

The boy nodded, and was about to leave when al-Zindiq stopped him. ‘Come here, son. Are you thirsty?’

The boy looked at Zuhayr, who nodded slightly. The boy eagerly took the cup of water he was being offered and drank it in one gulp.

‘Here, take a few dates for your ride back. You will have time to eat them after the young master has overtaken you.’

The boy gratefully accepted the fruit, bowed to the men and was soon to be seen coaxing his horse to retrace their route to the mountain.

‘Peace be upon you, Wajid al-Zindiq.’

‘And you, my son. Could I request a favour?’

‘Whatever you like.’

‘When your father permitted me to live here a quarter of a century ago he insisted on one condition and that alone. My lips were to remain sealed on all affairs concerning his family. If he were ever to discover that this condition had been breached, his permission would be withdrawn. And so would the supplies of food which your mother has so kindly organized for me. My future depends on your silence. There is nowhere else left for me to go.’

Zuhayr was outraged.

‘But this is unacceptable. It is unjust. It is not like my father. I will ...’

‘You will do nothing. Your father may have been wrong, but he had his reasons. I want your pledge that you will remain silent.’

‘You have my word. I swear on the al-koran ...’

‘Your word alone is sufficient.’

‘Of course, al-Zindiq, but in return I want your promise that you will complete the story.’

‘I had every intention of doing so.’

‘Peace be upon you then, old man.’

Al-Zindiq walked to where Khalid was tethered and smiled appreciatively as Zuhayr jumped on to his bare back. Al-Zindiq patted the horse.

‘Riding a horse without a sack ...’

‘I know,’ shouted Zuhayr, ‘... is like riding on a devil’s back. If that were true, all I can say is that the devil must have a comfortable back.’

‘Peace be upon you, al-Fahl. May your house flourish,’ shouted the old man with a grin on his face as Zuhayr galloped down the hill.

For a while al-Zindiq stood there silently appreciating the skill of the departing horseman.

‘I used to ride like that once. You remember don’t you, Zahra?’

There was no reply.

Y
AZID HAD WOKEN UP
from his afternoon sleep, trembling slightly, with sweat pouring down his face. His mother, lying next to him, was anxious at seeing her last-born in this state. She wiped his face with a linen cloth soaked in rose-water and felt his forehead. It was as cool as the afternoon breezes in the courtyard. There was no cause for alarm.

‘Are you feeling unwell my son?’

‘No. I just had a strange dream. It was so real, Ummi. Why are afternoon dreams more real? Is it because our sleep is lighter?’

‘Perhaps. Want to tell me about it?’

‘I dreamt of the Mosque in Qurtuba. It was so beautiful, Mother. And then Great-Uncle Miguel entered and began to pour bottles of blood everywhere. I tried to stop him, but he hit me ...’

‘What we see in dreams outdoes reality,’ Zubayda interrupted him. She did not like the continuous attacks on Miguel which the children were fed by Ama, and so she tried to divert her son’s mind. ‘But all that one could dream of the Great Mosque in Qurtuba falls short of the truth. One day we shall take you to see its magnificent arches. As for Miguel ...’ She sighed.

Zuhayr, on his way to the bath, had overheard the conversation and entered his mother’s room silently, just in time to hear Yazid’s condemnation of the Bishop of Qurtuba.

‘I don’t like him. I never have. He always squeezes my cheeks too hard. Ama says one can’t expect anything better. She said that his mother, the Lady Asma, didn’t like him either. You know, Mother, once I heard Ama and the Dwarf talking to each other about the Lady Asma. Ama said that it was Miguel who killed her. Is that true?’

Zubayda’s face turned ashen. She gave an unconvincing little laugh. ‘What foolishness is this? Of course Miguel did not kill his mother! Your father would be shocked to hear you talk in this fashion. Your Ama talks a lot of nonsense. You must not believe everything she says.’

‘Are you sure of that, Mother?’ asked Zuhayr in a mocking tone.

His voice startled both of them. Yazid leapt up and jumped straight into his arms. The brothers embraced and kissed each other. Their mother smiled.

‘The cub is safely back with its protector. You were greatly missed this morning. Yazid has been wandering about annoying everyone including himself. What did that old man have to say that was so interesting?’

Zuhayr’s answer to the predictable question had been carefully worked out on his ride back to the house.

‘The tragedy of al-Andalus. The failure of our way of life to survive. He thinks we are at the terminus of our history. He is a very learned man, Mother. A true scholar. What do you know about him? He simply refuses to talk about himself.’

‘Ask Ama,’ said Yazid. ‘She knows all about him.’

‘I am going to tell Ama that in future she must keep her imagination under control and be careful when Yazid is present.’

Zuhayr smiled, and was about to enter the discussion on Ama and the merits of her many pronouncements, but he suddenly caught his mother’s eye and the warning was clear. She had sat up in bed and a peremptory command soon followed.

‘Go and bathe, Zuhayr. Your hair is full of dust.’

‘And he smells of horse-sweat!’ added Yazid, pulling a face.

The brothers left and Zubayda clapped her hands. Two maids-in-waiting entered the room. One carried a mirror and two combs. Without a word they began to gently massage the head of their mistress, two pairs of hands working in perfect symmetry. The twenty fingers, delicate and firm at the same time, covered the entire area from the forehead to the nape. In the background Zubayda could only hear the sound of water. When she felt her inner balance restored she signalled that they should cease their labours.

The two women settled down on the floor and, as Zubayda shifted her body and positioned herself on the edge of the bed, they began to work on her feet. The younger of the two, Umayma, was new to this task and her nervousness revealed itself in her inability to use the force necessary to knead her mistress’s left heel.

‘What are they saying in the village?’ inquired Zubayda. Umayma had only recently been promoted to wait on her and she wanted to put the girl at her ease. The young maid-servant blushed on being addressed by her mistress and mumbled a few incoherent thoughts about the great respect everyone in the village had for the Banu Hudayl. Her older and more experienced colleague, Khadija, came to the rescue.

‘All the talk is about Zuhayr bin Umar slapping the face of the infidel, my lady.’

‘Zuhayr bin Umar is a rash fool! What does the talk say?’

Umayma had succeeded in suppressing a giggle, but Zubayda’s informality reassured her and she responded clearly.

‘The younger people agree with Ibn Umar, my lady, but many of the elders were displeased. They wondered whether the Christian had not been put up to the provocation and Ibn Hasd, the cobbler was worried. He thought they might send soldiers to attack al-Hudayl and take all of us prisoner. He said that ...’

‘Ibn Hasd is full of doom in good times, my lady.’

Khadija was worried lest Umayma gave too much away, and wanted to steer the conversation to safer waters, but Zubayda was insistent.

‘Quiet. Tell me girl, what did Ibn Hasd say?’

‘I cannot remember everything my lady, but he said that our sweet daydreams were over and soon we would wake up shivering.’

Zubayda smiled.

‘He is a good man even when he thinks unhappy thoughts. A stone from the hand of a friend is like an apple. Have you taken my clothes to the hammam?’

Umayma nodded. Zubayda dismissed the pair with a tilt of her head. She knew full well that the cobbler was only expressing what the whole village felt. There was a great feeling of uncertainty. For the first time in six hundred years, the villagers of al-Hudayl were being confronted with the possibility of a life without a future for their children. There were a thousand and one stories circulating throughout Gharnata of what had happened after the Reconquest of Qurtuba and Ishbiliya. Each refugee had arrived with tales of terror and random bestiality. What had left a very deep imprint was the detailed descriptions of how land and estates and property in several towns had been seized by the Catholic Church and the Crown. It was this that the villagers feared more than anything else. They did not want to be driven off the lands which they and their ancestors before them had cultivated for centuries. If the only way to save their homes was to convert, then many would undergo that ordeal in order to survive. First among them would be the family steward, Ubaydallah, whose only gods were security and wealth.

Zubayda determined to discuss these problems with her husband and reach a decision. The villagers were looking towards the Banu Hudayl for an answer. She knew they must be frightened by Zuhayr’s impulsiveness. Umar must go to the mosque on Friday. People wanted to be reassured.

As Zubayda walked through the courtyard she saw her sons playing chess. She observed the game for a minute and was amused to notice that the giant scowl disfiguring Zuhayr’s features was a sure sign that Yazid was on the verge of victory. His young voice was excited as he announced his triumph: ‘I always win when I have the black Queen on my side!’

‘What are you saying, wretch? Control your tongue. Chess must be played in total silence. That is the first rule of the game. You chatter away like a crow on heat.’

‘Your Sultan is trapped by my Queen,’ said Yazid. ‘I only spoke when I knew the game was over. No reason to get ill-tempered. Why should a drowning man be worried by rain?’