Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree (12 page)

Zuhayr did not take his friend too seriously. He knew the pressures of everyday life on Musa, and he understood, but that was not sufficient reason for cowardice at a time when everything was at stake. Zuhayr did not wish to quarrel with his friend, but nor could he keep silent and conceal his own thoughts. He turned to the stranger.

‘By what name are we to call you?’

‘Ibn Daud al-Misri.’

‘I would like to talk with you further. Why do we not return to your lodgings? I will help you pack your bags and then find you a horse to ride back with me to al-Hudayl. Trust in Allah. You might even find some of Ibn Khaldun’s manuscripts in our library! You do ride?’

‘That is very kind of you. I accept your hospitality with pleasure and, yes, I do ride.’

To the rest of the party Zuhayr issued a more general invitation. ‘Let us meet in my village in three days’ time. Then we will make our plans and discuss the methods of their execution. Is that agreed?’

‘Why not stay the night and we can talk now?’ asked Haroun bin Mohammed.

‘Because my father is in town and has pressed me to spend the night at my uncle’s house. I pleaded a desire to return home. It would be unwise to deceive him so openly. Three days?’

An agreement was reached. Zuhayr took Ibn Daud by the arm and escorted him to the street outside. They walked briskly to the lodging house, collected Ibn Daud’s belongings and then repaired to the stables. Zuhayr borrowed one of his uncle’s horses for his new friend and before Ibn Daud had time to recover from the suddenness of the proceedings, they were on their way to al-Hudayl.

Zuhayr’s uncle, Ibn Hisham, lived in a handsome town house, five minutes away from the Bab al-Ramla. The entrance to the house was no different from those of the other private dwellings on the street, but if one were to pause and look closely to either side it would become clear that the two adjoining entrances were in fact non-existent. False doors inlaid with turquoise tiles were designed to deceive. No stranger could imagine that what lay beyond the latticed doorways was a medium-sized palace. An underground passage beneath the street connected the different wings of the mansion and also served as an escape route to the Bab al-Ramla. Merchants did not take risks.

It was to this small palace that Umar bin Abdallah had repaired after his unsatisfactory exchange earlier that day with the Captain-General of Gharnata.

Ibn Hisham and Umar were cousins. Ibn Hisham’s father, Hisham al-Zaid, was the son of Ibn Farid’s sister. He had settled in Gharnata after the death of his uncle Ibn Farid, who had been his guardian since the early death of his parents, killed by bandits during a journey to Ishbiliya. While rising to become the chief economic adviser to the Sultan in the al-Hamra, he had utilized his position and talents to build his own fortune. In the absence of any rivalry over the property in al-Hudayl, the relationships between the two cousins had been warm and friendly. After the premature demise of Umar’s father, it had been his uncle Hisham al-Zaid who had stepped in and helped his nephew get over the emotional loss. More importantly he had also taught Umar the art of running an estate, explaining the difference between trade in the towns and land cultivation in the following words:

‘For us in Gharnata it is the goods we sell and exchange which matter most. Here in al-Hudayl what is crucial is your ability to communicate with the peasants and understand their needs. In the olden days the peasants were united to Ibn Farid and his grandfather through war. They fought under the same banner. That was important. Times have changed. Unlike the goods we buy or sell, your peasants can think and act. If you remember this simple fact you should not have any serious trouble.’

Hisham al-Zaid had died one year after the fall of the city. He had never known any disease, and the talk in the market ascribed his death to a broken heart. This may have been so, but it was also the case that he had celebrated his eightieth birthday some weeks before his departure.

Ever since his return from the al-Hamra, Umar had been in a dejected state of mind. He had bathed and rested, but his silence during the evening meal had weighed on everyone present. Ibn Hisham’s offer to send for some dancing girls and a flask of wine had been abruptly refused. Umar could not understand how his cousin’s family was in such good humour. It was true that people grew accustomed to adversity, but his instincts detected that there was something else at work. When he had told them about his meeting with Don Inigo they had refrained from expressing an opinion. Ibn Hisham and his wife Muneeza had exchanged strange looks when he had poured scorn on the Captain-General’s suggestion that every Muslim should convert immediately to Christianity. It was, Umar felt, as if they were being pulled away from him by hidden currents. Now, as the two men sat on the floor facing each other, they found themselves alone for the first time since his arrival. Umar was on the verge of an explosion.

He had barely opened his mouth when a loud knock sounded on the door. Umar saw Ibn Hisham’s face grow tight. He paused for the servant to come and announce the new arrival. Perhaps Don Inigo had had a change of heart and had sent a messenger asking him to return post-haste to the al-Hamra. Instead of the servant, however, a familiar robed figure entered the room. Suddenly everything became clear to Umar.

‘My Lord Bishop. I had no idea you were in Gharnata.’

The old man signalled for a chair, and took his seat. Umar began to pace up and down. Then his uncle spoke in a voice which was in marked contrast to his infirm appearance.

‘Sit down, nephew. I was fully aware that you were in Gharnata today. That is why I am here. Fortunately the son of my late cousin Hisham al-Zaid, may he rest in peace, has more sense than you. What ails you, Umar? Is the headship of the Banu Hudayl so great a burden that you have lost the use of your mind? Did I not tell you when they burnt the books that it would not stop at that? Did I not try and warn you of the consequences of clinging blindly to a faith whose time in this peninsula is over.’

Umar was boiling with rage.

‘Over is it, Uncle? Why don’t you lift your beautiful purple gown for a minute? Let us inspect your penis. I think we might discover that a tiny bit of skin has been removed. Why did you not cling on blindly to that piece of skin, Uncle? Nor were you shy of using the implement itself. Your son Juan is how old? Twenty? Born five years after you became a priest! What happened to his mother, our unknown aunt? Did they force her to leave the convent, or did the Mother Superior double as a midwife in her spare time? When did you see the light, Uncle?’

‘Stop this, Umar!’ his cousin shouted. ‘What is the use of all this talk? The Bishop is only trying to help us.’

‘I am not angry with you, Umar bin Abdallah. I like your spirit—it reminds me very much of my own father. But there is a law for those who engage in politics. They must pay some attention to the real world and what goes on there. Every circumstance that accompanies and succeeds an event must be studied in detail. That is what I learnt from my tutor, when I was Yazid’s age. We used to have our lessons in that courtyard through which the water flows and which your family loves so much. It was always in the afternoon, when it was drenched in sunshine.

‘I was taught never to base my views on speculation, but to make my thoughts conform to the realities that existed in the world outside. It was impossible for Gharnata to continue its existence. An Islamic oasis in a Christian desert. That is what you said to me three months before the surrender. Do you recall my reply?’

‘Only too well,’ muttered Umar, mimicking the old man. ‘“If what you say is true, Umar bin Abdallah, then it cannot go on like this. The oasis must be captured by the warriors of the desert.” Yes, Uncle. I remember. Tell me something ...’

‘No! You tell me something. Do you want our family estates to be confiscated? Do you want Zuhayr and yourself killed, Zubayda and the girls annexed to form part of your murderer’s household, Yazid enslaved by some priest and misused as an altar boy? Answer me!’

Umar was trembling. He sipped some water and just stared at Miguel.

‘Well?’ the Bishop of Qurtuba continued. ‘Why do you not speak? There is still time. That is why I used all my powers of persuasion to organize your meeting in the al-Hamra this morning. That is why I have persuaded Cisneros to come and perform the baptisms in the village. That is the only road to survival, my boy. Do you think I converted and became a Bishop because I saw a vision? The only vision I saw was of the destruction of our family. My decision was determined by politics, not religion.’

‘And yet,’ said Umar, ‘the Bishop’s gown sits easily on you. It’s as if you had worn it since birth.’

‘Mock as much as you like, my nephew, but make the right decision. Remember what the Prophet once said: Trust in God, but tether your camel first. I will give you another piece of information, though if it were to become known the Inquisition would demand my head. I still make my ablutions and bow before Mecca every Friday.’

Both Miguel’s nephews were startled, which made him chuckle.

‘In primitive times one must learn the art of being primitive. That is why I joined the Church of Rome, even though I still remain convinced that our way of seeing the world is much closer to the truth. I ask you to do the same. Your cousin and his family have already agreed. I will baptize them myself tomorrow. Why do you not stay and observe the ceremony? It is over before you can say ...’

‘There is no Allah but Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet?’

‘Exactly. You can carry on saying that to yourself every day.’

‘Better to die free than live like a slave.’

‘It is stupidity of this very sort which led to the defeat of your faith in this peninsula.’

Umar looked at his cousin, but Ibn Hisham averted his face.

‘Why?’ Umar shouted at him. ‘Why did you not tell me? It is like being stabbed in the heart.’

Ibn Hisham looked up. Tears were pouring down his face. How strange, thought Umar, as he saw the distress on his cousin’s face, when we were young his will was stronger than mine. I suppose it is his new responsibilities, but I have mine and they are greater. For him it is his business, his trade, his family. For me it is the lives of two thousand human beings. And yet the sight of his cousin saddened Umar, and his own eyes filled with tears.

For a moment, as they looked at each other, their eyes heavy with sorrow, Miguel was reminded of their youth. The two boys had been inseparable. This friendship had continued long after they were married. But as they grew older and became absorbed in the cares of their own families, they saw less of each other. The distance between the family home in the village and Ibn Hisham’s dwelling in Gharnata seemed to grow. Yet still, when they met, the two cousins exchanged confidences, discussed their families, their wealth, their future and, naturally, the changes taking place in their world. Ibn Hisham had felt great pain at concealing his decision to convert from Umar. It was the most important moment of his life. He felt that what he was about to do would ensure protection and stability for his children and their children.

Ibn Hisham was a wealthy merchant. He prided himself on his ability to judge human character. He could smell the mood of the city. His decision to become a Christian was on the same level as the decision he had taken thirty years ago to put all his gold into importing brocades from Samarkand. Within a year he had trebled his wealth.

He had no wish to deceive Umar, but he was frightened that his cousin, whose intellectual stubbornness and moral rigour had always inspired a mixture of respect and fear in their extended family, would convince him that he was wrong. Ibn Hisham did not wish to be so persuaded. He confessed all this, hoping that Umar would understand and forgive, but Umar continued to stare at him in anger and Ibn Hisham suddenly felt the temperature of those eyes pierce his head. In the space of a few minutes the gulf between the two men had grown so wide that they were incapable of speaking to each other.

It was Miguel who finally broke the silence. ‘I will come to al-Hudayl tomorrow.’

‘Why?’

‘Are you denying me the right to enter the house where I was born? I simply wish to see my sister. I will not intrude in your life.’

Umar realized that he was in danger of consigning the family code to oblivion. This could not be done and he retreated straight away. He knew that Miguel was determined to speak to Zubayda and convince her of the necessity of conversions. The old rogue thought she might be easier to convince of his nefarious plans. Old devil. He is as transparent as glass.

‘Forgive me, Uncle. My mind was on other matters. You are welcome as always to your home. We shall ride back together at sunrise. Pardon me, I had forgotten you have a baptism to perform. You will have to make your own way, I’m afraid. Now I have a favour to ask of you.’

‘Speak,’ said the Bishop of Qurtuba.

‘I would like to be alone with my uncle’s son.’

Miguel smiled and rose. Ibn Hisham clapped his hands. A servant entered with a lamp and escorted the cleric to his chamber. Both of them felt more relaxed in his absence. Umar looked at his friend, but his eyes were distant. Anger had given way to sorrow and resignation. Foreseeing their separation, which could well be permanent, Ibn Hisham stretched out his hand. Umar clasped it for a second and then let it drop. The grief felt by both of them went so deep that they did not feel the need to say a great deal to each other.

‘Just in case you had any doubts,’ Ibn Hisham began, ‘I want you to know that my reasons have nothing to do with religion.’

‘That is what saddens me deeply. If you had converted genuinely I would have argued and felt sad, but there would have been no anger. No bitterness. But do not worry, I will not even attempt to change your mind. Has the rest of the family accepted your decision?’

Ibn Hisham nodded.

‘I wish time would stop forever.’

Umar laughed out aloud at this remark, and Ibn Hisham flinched. It was a strange laugh like a distant echo.

‘We have just come through one disaster,’ said Umar, ‘and are on the edge of another.’