The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

  The offender had refused to name his friend. He was tortured. His lips remained sealed. The Inquisition found the story unconvincing and handed him over to the civil authorities for the final punishment. He had been burnt at the stake some days ago. The image of the offensive act continued to haunt Ximenes. He made a mental note to send for the papers of the Inquisition referring to this particular case.

  Ximenes was not bereft of a conscience. The man who was proposing himself as the cruel executioner of Islamic Gharnata had once himself been a victim. He had spent time in an ecclesiastical prison on the orders of the late Cardinal Carillo. The Cardinal, who was soon to be succeeded by Archbishop Mendoza, had asked Ximenes to abdicate a minor position in the Spanish Church, to which he had been appointed by Rome, in favour of one of the circle of sycophants which surrounded Carillo. Ximenes refused. His punishment had been six months’ solitary confinement. The experience had left the priest sensitive to questions such as the difference between guilt and innocence, and it was this that made him reflect on the death of the man in Toledo who had cleaned his private parts in the holy water. Perhaps he had been innocent, but no Catholic would have sent him to the cathedral with those instructions. It must have been one of those French heretics who had escaped punishment. The prelate’s eyes began to gleam as he felt he had uncovered the real truth. He would study the papers closely.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Enter.’

  A soldier entered and whispered in his ear.

  ‘Send him in.’

  Ibn Hisham entered the room. He went straight to the Archbishop who extended his hand. Ibn Hisham bent on one knee and kissed the ring. Ximenes lifted him up and indicated a seat.

  ‘My uncle Miguel left firm instructions that I must call on Your Grace and pay my respects.’

  Ximenes looked at the newest converso from the ranks of Granada’s nobility and attempted a smile.

  ‘How were you christened by the Bishop of Cordova?’

  ‘Pedro de Gharnata.’

  ‘Surely you mean Pedro de Granada.’

  Pedro nodded, his eyes betraying the sadness and humiliation which he had inflicted upon himself. He saw the half-triumphant, half-contemptuous look on the face of the man whose hand he had kissed and he wanted to be dead. Instead he smiled weakly, cursing himself for his servility.

  Ximenes looked at him and nodded.

  ‘Your visit was unnecessary. I have already intimated to your uncle that you would be permitted to carry on your trade. I am a man who keeps his word. Tell me something, Pedro. Did your daughter convert to our faith as well?’

  Pedro de Granada began to sweat. The devil knew everything.

  ‘She will on her return from Ishbi ... I mean Sevilla, Your Grace. We are awaiting her return.’

  ‘Bless you, my son. Now if you will excuse me it is time for evensong, and after that I have other business to which I must attend. Just one more thing. As you probably know, seven of our priests on their way to Holy Communion last week were ambushed. A deluge of human excrement contained in wooden buckets was emptied over their heads. Do you by any chance know the names of the young men who perpetrated this act?’

  Pedro shook his head.

  ‘No, I thought not. If you did you would have already reported the matter. Try and find out if you can. Such outrages cannot remain unpunished.’

  The newly baptized Pedro de Granada agreed with these sentiments most forcefully.

  ‘When God wants to destroy an ant, Your Grace, he permits her to grow wings.’

  After Pedro had bowed and taken his leave, a wave of nausea overpowered Ximenes.

  ‘Hateful, spineless, confused, witless wretches,’ he thought to himself. ‘Every day they come and see me. Some out of fear. Others to protect their future. Ready to betray their own mothers if ... if ... if ... always an if ... if the Church will guarantee their property; if the church will not interfere with their trade; if the Church will keep the Inquisition out of Granada. Only then will they happily convert to our faith and bring to it their relentless pursuit of greed. God curse them all. Our Church does not need such pitiful wrecks. Pedro de Granada will remain a Mahometan till the day he dies. May God curse him and others like him.’

  EIGHT

  AT A DISTANCE, ON the slopes of the mountain, the white houses of the village were no longer visible, but the flickering of the oil lamps which hung outside them was magical from where Yazid was seated. He knew the lights would not go out till the men and women around him returned home.

  The outer courtyard of the house was overflowing with visitors. They were sitting in a large circle on thick carpets which had been placed on the grass. Occasionally, a tiny flame would light the face of al-Zindiq or Miguel, who were seated in the centre of the circle. The coal fires burning in the stoves kept them all warm. There had been over two hundred people present that night when the ‘debate’ had first started.

  This family, which for centuries had not thought about anything more demanding than the pleasures of the hunt, the quality of the marinade used by the cooks on the roast lamb being grilled that day, or the new silks which had arrived in Gharnata from China, was tonight confronting history.

  Miguel had dominated the evening. At first he had sounded bitter and cynical. The success of the Catholic Church, its practical superiority, he had argued, lay in the fact that it did not even attempt to sweeten the bitter taste of its medicine. It did not bother to deceive; it was not searching for popularity; it did not disguise its shape in order to please its followers. It was disgustingly frank. It shook Man by the shoulders, and shouted in his ear:

  ‘You were born in excrement and you will live in it, but we might forgive you for being so foul, so vile, so repulsive if you sink to your knees and pray every day for forgiveness. Your pitiful, pathetic existence must be borne with exemplary humility. Life is and will remain a torment. All you can do is to save your soul, and if you do that and keep your discontent well hidden, you might be redeemed. That and that alone will make your life on earth a mite less filthy than it was on the day you were born. Only the damned seek happiness in this world.’

  Miguel had paused at this point and studied his audience. They appeared to be in a hypnotic trance and had stared back at him in amazement. In a soft, calm voice, he had taken them on a tour of their past, reminding them not just of the glories of Islam, but also of the defeats, the chaos, the palace despotisms, the internecine wars and the inevitable self-destruction.

  ‘If our Caliphs and Sultans had wanted things to stay the same, they should have changed the way they governed these lands. Do you think it gave me pleasure to shift religions? Even tonight, I have made some of my own family angry, as you have observed, but I have reached a stage in my life where I can no longer conceal the truth.

  ‘I love this house and this village. It is because I want them to remain and all of you to prosper that I ask you, once again, to think very seriously. It is already late, but if you do as I say we can still save you. In the end you will convert, but by then the Inquisition will be here and they will question all of you to determine which conversion is true and which is false. Since one of their aims is to confiscate your lands for the Church and the Crown, they will give themselves the benefit of the doubt. I cannot compel you, but those who are coming after me will not be so kind.’

  Even though what he had to say was unpopular, it was felt by most of those present that he was nearer the truth than the hotheads who wanted to start a war, for underneath the detached calm which surrounded the seigneurial house, there was a great deal of tension.

  Some of those with young children had drifted away after the opening speeches, but Yazid was still wide awake and enjoying every moment. He was sitting near his mother, sharing her large woollen cloak. Next to him was his sister Hind, who had, true to the Berber characteristics she had inherited from her mother’s side, displayed an exuberance which had amazed everyone, except Yazid. She had interrupted her great-unc
le several times, laughed sarcastically at his attempted witticisms and muttered the odd obscenity under her breath, but the night air had carried her voice and the village women had applauded. Miguel had responded without anger, secretly admiring Hind’s courage, and publicly proclaiming that he loved her dearly. Her response to this avuncular declaration had been characteristic, but this time she had gone too far and isolated herself.

  ‘When a serpent says he loves me I wear him as a necklace.’

  Ama had cackled loudly, which had surprised Yazid since he knew Ama disapproved strongly of Hind’s behaviour. But Ama had been alone. Even though Miguel was not universally popular, this sort of rudeness did not please the villagers, who felt it was a breach of hospitality to the son of Ibn Farid. The comparison to a snake had upset her great-uncle. His ears had been stung by the venom and he had been unable to prevent the telltale water from filling his eyes.

  It was the sight of his uncle in tears that had in turn upset Umar, who had frowned at his wife from the other side of the stove. Zubayda deciphered the signal accurately. She whispered Hind to order, threatening her with marriage to Miguel’s son, simple Juan, unless she disciplined her tongue immediately. The blackmail worked brilliantly. Hind had sidled up to Miguel and apologized in his ear. He had smiled and stroked her head. Peace had returned. Coffee had been served.

  Hind was not at all upset, since her own views had been made clear to the assembled company and, in particular, to the stranger who sat in its midst. Ibn Daud, the green-eyed jewel from al-Qahira and the object of her affections, was deep in thought. Ibn Daud had been struck by Hind even before Yazid had blurted out his sister’s secret. Her hot-tempered tongue and sharp, mischievous features had enchanted him, but tonight he was distracted by the debate. He had smiled at Hind’s cheeky assault on her great-uncle, but it was al-Zindiq’s sobering reflections which had become the centre of his preoccupations that evening.

  Al-Zindiq had, in polar contrast to Miguel, savaged Christian beliefs and superstitions. He had mocked the old Church for its inability to resist pagan pressures. Why else make Isa a divinity and his mother an object of worship? The Prophet Mohammed, in contrast, had ultimately rejected the same pressures, resisted temptation and disavowed the worship of three female goddesses. That was as far as al-Zindiq was prepared to travel tonight with his co-religionists. He did not defend Islam with the intellectual vigour for which he was renowned, and which had been expected from him on this night. He was too honest a man to contradict those of Miguel’s assertions that he regarded as indisputable. Instead he tried to enthuse his audience by reminding them that a star which waned in one firmament could rise in another. He described the Muslim victories in Istanbul in such graphic detail that a shiver of collective pride shook his audience. As for the decline of al-Andalus, he did not give much credence to some of the more popular explanations.

  ‘Remember,’ he asked them, ‘the story of the Sultan of Tlemcen and the holy man? The Sultan was attired in his most extravagant clothes when he received Abu Abdallah al-Tunisi. “Is it lawful for me to pray in these fine clothes I am wearing?” he asked his learned visitor. Abu Abdallah laughed and explained his reaction in the following words. “I am laughing, O proud Sultan, at the feebleness of your intellect, your ignorance of yourself and your sorry spiritual state. For me you are like a dog sniffing around in the blood of a carcass and eating filth, but lifting its leg when it urinates lest the liquid soil its body. You ask me about your clothes when the sufferings of men are upon your head.” The Sultan began to weep. He renounced his position and became a follower of the Holy Man.’

  Al-Zindiq finished his story amidst cries of ‘Wa Allah’ and the expression of sentiments supporting the thesis that if all the Muslim kings of al-Andalus had behaved in like fashion, the followers of the Prophet would not be in such a sad state at the moment. This was the reaction al-Zindiq expected, and he now confronted them very directly.

  ‘It sounds good, but would it have saved us? I don’t think so. No amount of religion can succeed in changing the ways of kings unless it is based on something more, on something which our great teacher Ibn Khaldun called solidarity. Our defeats are a result of our failure to preserve the unity of al-Andalus. We let the Caliphate collapse and in its place we let poisonous weeds grow, till they had covered every inch of our garden. The big lords pounced on al-Andalus and divided it amongst themselves. Each became a big fish in a tiny pond, whereas exactly the opposite process was reshaping the kingdoms of Christianity. We founded many dynasties, but failed to find a way of ruling our people according to the dictates of reason. We failed to establish political laws, which could have protected all our citizens against the whims of arbitrary rulers. We who led the rest of the world in the realms of science and architecture, medicine and music, literature and astronomy, we who were a privileged people, could not find the road to stability and a government based on reason. That was our weakness and the Christians of Europe have learnt from our mistakes. It is that and not the way our kings dressed which has been the curse of Islam in these lands. I know that some of you think help will come from the Sultan in Istanbul. I do not believe so, my friends. I think the Turks will take the East and leave us in peace to be devoured by the Christians.’

  Umar had been greatly impressed by both Miguel and al-Zindiq, but he was tired. There were more urgent matters involving his family which were worrying him and had prevented his total concentration on the proceedings of the evening. He wanted to bring the event to an end, but some traditions had acquired a semi-religious status and become part of the rules of the debate. In a tone which suggested otherwise, Umar asked if any other person present wished to speak. To his great annoyance, an old weaver rose to his feet.

  ‘Peace be upon all of you and may God preserve you and your family, Umar bin Abdallah,’ began the weaver. ‘I have heard both His Excellency the Bishop of Qurtuba and Ibn Zaydun who calls himself al-Zindiq with great attention. I do not possess their knowledge, but I wish to make just one point. I think our defeat was settled within the first hundred years of Tarik ibn Ziyad landing on the rock which now bears his name. When two of our generals reached the mountains the Franks know as the Pyrenees, they stood on the summit and looked down on the land of the Gauls. Then they looked at each other. They did not utter a word, but both Generals were thinking the same thing. If they wanted to safeguard al-Andalus, they had to secure the country of the Franks. We tried. Yes, we tried. Many of the cities fell to us, but the most decisive conflict in our history was the confrontation between our armies and those of Charles Martel just outside the town they call Poitiers. We lost our chance to win the Frankish kingdom that day, but we also lost al-Andalus, though few of us still recognize this fact. The only way to have saved this land for our Prophet would have been to construct a mosque in Notre-Dame. That is all I wanted to say.’

  Then Umar thanked him profusely for raising their sight to a more lofty understanding of their present impasse and bade everyone present a happy night.

  As the congregation began to disperse, Ama took Yazid by the hand and led him into the house, but not before she had noticed that an unusually large number of men were shaking Miguel by the hand with unusual warmth. These included his natural brother Ibn Hasd and, as the two men stood together, Hind was once again struck by how alike they looked when seen in profile. Zubayda stood by her husband exchanging greetings with the men and women of the village as they said their farewells.

  Unlike his father and grandfather, Umar’s relationships with the peasants and weavers whose families dominated Hudayl were cordial, even friendly. He attended their weddings and funerals, displaying a knowledge of their names and the number of children in each family which surprised and pleased them. ‘This lord is a lord,’ a weaver would say to his wife. ‘Of that there can be no doubt. He benefits from our labours just as his fathers did, but he is a decent lord.’

  There was no time tonight for such niceties. Umar was in an impatient mood.
He had not spoken a great deal during the discussion and he was now eager for them all to return to their homes. Zubayda had informed him during the evening meal, which had been taken early that day in order to accommodate the debate, that their first-born was engaged in an undertaking which was as rash as it was foolish and she feared for his life. Serving women from the village had informed her that Zuhayr was recruiting young men for ‘the battle.’ Zuhayr had not been present, and when enquiries had been made as to his whereabouts, the groom reported that he had saddled the young master’s favourite steed, but had been given no indication as to his destination. All he knew was that Zuhayr al-Fahl had taken two blankets with him. When the groom had left the room, Hind had been unable to control a smile. That was all Umar needed to make a deduction.

  ‘Discourteous dog! His great-uncle will debate his great friend Ibn Zaydun on matters of life and death for his family, his faith, our future, and where is our knight? Busy on some hillside impregnating a wretched maid-servant.’

  From inside the house Zuhayr observed the departures, feeling regret that he had absented himself from this important occasion. He was feeling sated and tinged with disgust at his own lack of discipline and his affinities to the animal kingdom, but ... but, he thought as he relived the experience, Umayma was so different from those painted whores in Gharnata, whose flesh was manhandled every hour of the day and night. Umayma made him feel irresponsible. She excited his sensuality. She neither expected nor demanded anything more. If he had not gone to her this evening he might never have seen her again. Within three months she would be married to Suleiman, the bald, cross-eyed weaver who spun the finest silk in the village, but who was hardly a match for him, Zuhayr al-Fahl, in the crafts which really mattered.

  ‘Well?’ said Umar, startling his son. ‘Where were you? Missing the meal was unimportant, but absenting yourself from the debate at such a time? Your absence was noted. Ibn Hasd and Suleiman the weaver were both enquiring after your health!’