The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

  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.

  3

  YAZID 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?’

  Zuhayr, angry at being defeated by a nine-year-old, laid his King on the table, gave a very weak laugh and stalked off.

  ‘I’ll see you at dinner, wretch!’

  Yazid smiled at the Queen. He was collecting the pieces and stowing them in their special box when an old retainer, his face pale with fear as if he had seen a ghost, ran into the courtyard. Ama came out of the kitchen. He whispered something in her ear. Yazid had never seen the old woman look so worried. Could it be that a Christian army was invading al-Hudayl? Before he could rush to the tower and find out for himself, his father appeared on the scene, followed by Ama.

  Yazid, not wanting to be left out, walked over casually to his father and held his hand. Umar smiled at him, but frowned at the servant.

  ‘Are you sure? There can be no mistake?’

  ‘None, my Lord. I saw the party with my own eyes pass through the village. There were two Christian soldiers accompanying the Lady and people were worried. It was Ibn Hasd who recognized her and told me to ride as fast as I could and let you know.’

  ‘Wa Allah! After all these years. Go, man. Eat something before you return. Ama will take you to the kitchen. Yazid, go and tell your mother I wish to speak to her. After that inform your brother and sisters that we have a guest with us tonight. I want them to join me here so that we can greet our visitor as a family. Run, boy.’

  Zahra bint Najma had exchanged a word with the cobbler, but otherwise she had not replied to the greetings addressed to her by the village elders. She had nodded slightly to acknowledge their presence, but nothing more. Once her cart had passed through the narrow streets of the village and reached the clump of trees from which the house was so clearly visible, she told the carter to follow the rough path that ran parallel to the stream.

  ‘Go with the water till you see the house of the Banu Hudayl,’ she said, her frail voice beginning to shake with emotion. She had never thought that she would live to see her home again. The tears, controlled for decades, burst with the quiet fury of a swollen river overflowing its banks. They are nothing now but memories, she told herself.

  She had thought that in the course of half a century she had purged her system so thoroughly that hardly anything was left inside. How deceptive existence can be. Her first glance at the house told her that nothing had been erased. As she saw the familiar landscapes she remembered everything so vividly that it began to hurt again. There was the orchard of pomegranate trees. She smiled as the cart-horse slowed down, exhausted by the long journey, and drank some water from the stream. Even though it was autumn she could shut her eyes and smell the orchards.

  ‘Are you sure you weren’t observed?’ His voice nervous and excited.

  ‘Only by the moon! I can hear your heart beating.’

  No more words were said that night till they had parted just before dawn.

  ‘You will be my wife!’

  ‘I want none other.’

  She opened her eyes and drank in the last rays of the sun. Nothing had changed here. There were the giant walls and the tower. The gates were open as usual. Winter was already in the air. The scent of the soil overpowered her senses. The gentle noise and silken water of the stream that flowed through that courtyard and into the tanks that serviced the hammam—it was just as she recalled it all those years ago. And Abdallah’s boy, Umar, was now master of this domain.

  She felt the Christian soldiers with her grow suddenly tense, and soon she saw the cause. Three horsemen, dressed in blinding white robes and turbans, were riding towards her. The cart stopped.

  Umar bin Abdallah and his two sons, Zuhayr and Yazid, reined in their horses and saluted the old lady.

  ‘Peace be upon you, my father’s sister. Welcome home.’

  ‘When I left you were four years old. Your mother was always telling me to be more strict with you. Come here.’

  Umar dismounted and walked to the cart. She kissed him on his head.

  ‘Let us go home,’ she whispered.

  As they reached the entrance to the house, they saw the older servants waiting outside. Zahra disembarked as Ama limped forward and hugged her.

  ‘Bismallah, bismallah. Welcome to your old home, my lady,’ said Ama as the tears flowed down her face.

  ‘I’m glad you’re still alive, Amira. I really am. The past is forgotten and I do not wish it to return,’ Zahra replied as the two ancients looked at each other.

  Then she was escorted indoors, where Zubayda, Hind and Kulthum bowed and made their welcomes. Zahra inspected each of them in turn and then turned round to see if Yazid was following her. He was and she grabbed his turban and threw it in the air. This gesture relieved the tension as everyone laughed. Zahra knelt on the cushion and hugged Yazid. The boy, feeling instinctively that the act was genuine, reciprocated the affection.

  ‘Great-Aunt Zahra, Ama told me you’ve been locked up in the maristan in Gharnata for forty years, but you don’t seem mad at all.’

  Umar frowned at his son as a wave of nervousness gripped the family, but Hind roared with laughter.

  ‘I agree with Yazid. Why did you not come sooner?’

  Zahra smiled.

  ‘At first I did not think that I would be welcome. Then I just did not think.’

  Ama, followed by two young maids, walked in with towels and clean clothes.

  ‘May Allah bless you, my lady. Your bath is ready. These girls will help you.’

  ‘Thank you, Amira. After that I must eat something.’

  ‘Dinner is ready, Aunt,’ Zubayda interjected. ‘We were waiting to eat with you.’

  Ama took Zahra by the arm and they walked out into the courtyard, followed by the two maid-servants. Hind waited till they were out of earshot.

  ‘Father! Great-Aunt Zahra is not mad, is she? Was she ever mad?’

  Umar shrugged his shoulders and exchanged a rapid glance with Zubayda. ‘I do not know, child. We were all told that she had lost her mind in Qurtuba. They sent her back here, but she refused to marry and started wandering about the hills on her own reciting blasphemous verses. I must confess I was never convinced about her illness. It seemed too convenient. My father adored her and was very unhappy at the decision, but Ibn Farid was a very hard man. We must make her last years happy ones.’

  Hind was not prepared to change the subject.

  ‘But Father, why did you never go to the maristan and visit her. Why?’

  ‘I felt it might be too painful for her. I did think about it sometimes, but something always stopped me. My father used to go and see her, but each time he returned home in such a state of depression that he could not smile for weeks. I suppose I did not wish to reawaken those memories. But she is here now, my daughter and I’m sure that she will answer all your questions. Aunt Zahra was never renowned for her discretion.’

  ‘I don’t want you to imagine that we ignored her existence,’ said Zubayda. ‘Till last week fresh clothes and fruit were being sent to her every week on our behalf by your father’s cousin Hisham.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Yazid in a very adult tone, which, much to his annoyance, made them all laugh and he had to turn away to conceal his own smile.

  If there had been any doubts left about
Zahra’s sanity, they were all dispelled during dinner. She talked and laughed with such ease that it seemed as if she had always been part of their household. At one stage, when the discussion had inevitably moved to the tragedy of al-Andalus, the old lady revealed a politically perceptive streak that surprised Zubayda.

  ‘Why did we go into decline? We fell prey to the fool’s sense of honour! Do you know what that is Hind? Yazid? Zuhayr? No? Fools regard forgiveness as wrong.’

  It was Hind who finally asked the question in everyone’s mind.

  ‘Great-Aunt, how did you get permission to leave the maristan? What happened?’

  The old lady seemed genuinely surprised. ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  Everyone shook their heads.

  ‘We always were isolated from the rest of the world in this place. The whole of Gharnata is talking about what happened in the maristan. I thought you knew.’ She began to chuckle. ‘I’d better tell you, I suppose. Is there anything to sweeten the palate, niece?’

  Before Zubayda could reply, Ama, who had been waiting patiently for them to finish the main part of the meal, spoke. ‘Would my lady like some heavenly mixture?’

  ‘Heavenly mixture! You remembered, Amira?’

  ‘Yes, I did remember,’ said Ama, ‘but I was going to make some anyway for Zuhayr’s breakfast, except that he did not return from his long ride till after midday. All the ingredients have been ready since the morning. The cornflour is kneaded and waiting to be shaped into cakes and baked. I will not be long.’

  Seeing that they were all looking at her expectantly, Zahra realized that it was time to tell them, and so she began to recount the momentous incidents which had brought about a sudden change in her life.

  ‘Ten days ago some friars arrived and began to enquire about the religion of the inmates. The majority were followers of the Prophet. The rest were Jews and there were a few Christians. The monks told the authorities that the Archbishop from Tulaytula ...’