Read Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree Online
Authors: Tariq Ali
Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree
Book One of the Islam Quintet
Tariq Ali
For Aisha, Chengiz and Natasha
THE BANU HUDAYL
in 1499
AD
The clan of Hassan al-Hudayl left Dimashk in 237 AH—932 AD—and reached the Western outposts of Islam in the same year. They settled near Gharnata and in the following year began to build the village which bore their name. The mansion was constructed three years later by stonemasons who had built the Medina al-Zahara near Qurtuba.
I
N MOORISH SPAIN, AS
in the Arab World today, children received a given name, and were further identified by the name of their father or mother. In this narrative Zuhayr bin Umar is Zuhayr, son of Umar; Asma bint Dorothea is Asma, daughter of Dorothea. A man’s public name might simply identify him as the son of his father—Ibn Farid, Ibn Khaldun, son of Farid, of Khaldun. The Moors in this story use their own names for cities which now bear Spanish names, including several that were founded by the Moors themselves. These names, and some common Moorish words, are explained in the Glossary on p. 242.
T
HE FIVE CHRISTIAN KNIGHTS
summoned to the apartment of Ximenes de Cisneros did not welcome the midnight call. Their reaction had little to do with the fact that it was the coldest winter in living memory. They were veterans of the Reconquest. Troops under their command had triumphantly marched into Gharnata seven years before and occupied the city in the name of Ferdinand and Isabella.
None of the five men belonged to the region. The oldest amongst them was the natural son of a monk in Toledo. The others were Castilians and desperate to return to their villages. They were all good Catholics, but did not want their loyalty taken for granted, not even by the Queen’s confessor. They knew how he had had himself transferred from Toledo where he was the Archbishop to the conquered city. It was hardly a secret that Cisneros was an instrument of Queen Isabella. He wielded a power that was not exclusively spiritual. The knights were only too well aware how a defiance of his authority would be viewed by the Court.
The five men, wrapped in cloaks but still shivering from the cold, were shown into Cisneros’ bed-chamber. The austerity of the living conditions surprised them. Looks were exchanged. For a prince of the Church to inhabit quarters more suited to a fanatical monk was unprecedented. They were not yet used to a prelate who lived as he preached. Ximenes looked up at them and smiled. The voice which gave them their instructions had no clang of command. The knights were taken aback. The man from Toledo whispered loudly to his companions: ‘Isabella has entrusted the keys of the pigeon-house to a cat.’
Cisneros chose to ignore this display of insolence. Instead, he raised his voice slightly.
‘I wish to make it clear that we are not interested in the pursuit of any personal vendettas. I speak to you with the authority of both Church and Crown.’
This was not strictly true, but soldiers are not accustomed to questioning those in authority. Once he was satisfied that his instruction had been fully understood, the Archbishop dismissed them. He had wanted to make it clear that the cowl was in command of the sword. A week later, on the first day of December in the year 1499, Christian soldiers under the command of five knight-commanders entered the one hundred and ninety-five libraries of the city and a dozen mansions where some of the better-known private collections were housed. Everything written in Arabic was confiscated.
The day before, scholars in the service of the Church had convinced Cisneros to exempt three hundred manuscripts from his edict. He had agreed, provided they were placed in the new library he was preparing to endow in Alcala. The bulk of these were Arab manuals of medicine and astronomy. They represented the major advances in these and related sciences since the days of antiquity. Here was much of the material which had travelled from the peninsula of al-Andalus as well as Sicily to the rest of Europe and paved the way for the Renaissance.
Several thousand copies of the Koran, together with learned commentaries and theological and philosophical reflections on its merits and demerits, all crafted in the most exquisite calligraphy, were carted away indiscriminately by the men in uniform. Rare manuscripts vital to the entire architecture of intellectual life in al-Andalus, were crammed in makeshift bundles on the backs of soldiers.
Throughout the day the soldiers constructed a rampart of hundreds of thousands of manuscripts. The collective wisdom of the entire peninsula lay in the old silk market below the Bab al-Ramla.
This was the ancient space where once Moorish knights used to ride and joust to catch the eye of their ladies; where the populace would assemble in large numbers, children riding on the shoulders of fathers, uncles and elder brothers as they cheered their favourites; where catcalls greeted the appearance of those who paraded in the armour of knights simply because they were creatures of the Sultan. When it was clear that a brave man had allowed one of the courtiers to win out of deference to the King or, just as likely, because he had been promised a purse full of gold dinars, the citizens of Gharnata jeered loudly. It was a citizenry well known for its independence of mind, rapier wit, and reluctance to recognize superiors. This was the city and this the place chosen by Cisneros for his demonstration of fireworks that night.
The sumptuously bound and decorated volumes were a testament to the arts of the Peninsulan Arabs, surpassing the standards of the monasteries of Christendom. The compositions they contained had been the envy of scholars throughout Europe. What a splendid pile was laid before the population of the town.
The soldiers who, since the early hours of the morning, had been building the wall of books had avoided the eyes of the Gharnatinos. Some onlookers were sorrowful, others tempestuous, eyes flashing, faces full of anger and defiance. Others still, their bodies swaying gently from side to side, wore vacant expressions. One of them, an old man, kept repeating the only sentence he could utter in the face of the calamity.
‘We are being drowned in a sea of helplessness.’
Some of the soldiers, perhaps because they never had been taught to read or write, understood the enormity of the crime they were helping to perpetrate. Their own role troubled them. Sons of peasants, they recalled the stories they used to hear from their grandparents, whose tales of Moorish cruelty contrasted with accounts of their culture and learning.
There were not many of these soldiers, but enough to make a difference. As they walked down the narrow streets, they would deliberately discard a few manuscripts in front of the tightly sealed doors. Having no other scale of judgement, they imagined that the heaviest volumes must also be the weightiest. The assumption was false, but the intention was honourable, and the gesture was appreciated. The minute the soldiers were out of sight, a door would open and a robed figure would leap out, scoop up the books and disappear again behind the relative safety of locks and bars. In this fashion, thanks to the instinctive decency of a handful of soldiers, several hundred important manuscripts survived. They were subsequently transported across the water to the safety of personal libraries in Fes, and so were saved.
In the square it was beginning to get dark. A large crowd of reluctant citizens, mainly male, had been assembled by the soldiery. Muslim grandees and turbaned preachers mingled with the shopkeepers, traders, peasants, artisans and stall-holders, as well as pimps, prostitutes and the mentally unstable. All humanity was represented here.
Behind the window of a lodging house the most favoured sentinel of the Church in Rome was watching the growing palisade of books with a feeling of satisfaction. Ximenes de Cisneros had always believed that the heathen could only be eliminated as a force if their culture was completely erased. This meant the systematic destruction of all their books. Oral traditions would survive for a while, till the Inquisition plucked away the offending tongues. If not himself, then someone else would have had to organize this necessary bonfire—somebody who understood that the future had to be secured through firmness and discipline and not through love and education, as those imbecile Dominicans endlessly proclaimed. What had they ever achieved?
Ximenes was exultant. He had been chosen as the instrument of the Almighty. Others might have carried out this task, but none so methodically as he. A sneer curled his lip. What else could be expected from a clergy whose abbots, only a few hundred years ago, were named Mohammed, Umar, Uthman and so on? Ximenes was proud of his purity. The childhood jibes he had endured were false. He had no Jewish ancestors. No mongrel blood stained his veins.
A soldier had been posted just in front of the prelate’s window. Ximenes stared at him and nodded, the signal was passed to the torch-bearers, and the fire was lit. For half a second there was total silence. Then a loud wail rent the December night, followed by cries of: ‘There is only one Allah and he is Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet.’
At a distance from Cisneros a group was chanting, but he could not hear the words. Not that he would have understood them anyway, since the language of the verses was Arabic. The fire was rising higher and higher. The sky itself seemed to have become a flaming abyss, a spectrum of sparks that floated in the air as the delicately coloured calligraphy burnt itself out. It was as if the stars were raining down their sorrow.
Slowly, in a daze, the crowds began to walk away till a beggar stripped himself bare and began to climb on to the fire. ‘What is the point of life without our books of learning?’ he cried through scorching lungs. ‘They must pay. They will pay for what they have done to us today.’
