by Tariq Ali
ELEVEN
XIMENES IS SITTING AT his desk thinking.
My skin is perhaps too dark, my eyes are not blue but dark brown, my nose is hooked and long, and yet I am sure, yes sure, that my blood is without taint. My forefathers were here when the Romans came and my family is much older than the Visigoth ancestors of the noble Count, our brave Captain-General. Why do they whisper I have Jewish blood in me? Is it a cruel joke? Or are some disaffected Dominicans spreading this poison to discredit me inside the Church so that they can once again stray into the land of deceit and confuse the distinctions between ourselves and the followers of Moses and the false prophet Mahomet? Whatever their reasoning, it is not true. Do you hear me? It is not true. My blood is pure! Pure as we shall make this kingdom one day. I shall neither weep nor complain at these endless insults, but carry on God’s work. The wolves call me a beast, but they dare not attack me for they know the price they will have to pay for my blood. The worship of Mary and the pain felt by Him who was crucified awakens mysterious emotions inside me. In my dreams I often see myself as a Crusader below the ramparts of Jerusalem or catching sight of Constantinople. My memory is rooted in the time of Christianity, but why am I always alone, even in my dreams? No family. No friends. No pity for the inferior races. There is no Jewish blood in me. Not even one tiny drop. No. On this I have no doubts.
A spy had informed Ximenes a few hours ago that at the conclusion of a banquet the previous night, after a great deal of wine had been imbibed and the assembled party of Muslim and Christian noblemen, together with Jewish merchants, were being entertained by dancing-girls, a courtier had remarked that it was a great pity that the Archbishop of Toledo could not be present to enjoy such pleasant company, upon which the Captain-General, Don Inigo, had been heard to remark that the reason for the prelate’s absence might well be that in the candle-light it was impossible to tell him apart from a Jew. He had not stopped there, but insisted loudly, amidst general laughter that this could be one reason why His Grace shunned the company of Jews even more than of Moors. For whereas Moorish features were indistinguishable from those of Christians, the Jews had preserved their own special traits with much greater care, as a close inspection of Ximenes clearly revealed.
At this point a Moorish nobleman, stroking his luxuriant red beard and with a twinkle in his shiny blue eyes, had asked Don Inigo whether it was true that the reason the Archbishop was determined to destroy the followers of the one God had much more to do with proving his own racial purity than with defending the Trinity. Don Inigo had assumed a mock-serious expression and shouted that the suggestion was preposterous, then winked at his guests.
Ximenes dismissed the spy with an angry wave of the hand, to imply that he was not interested in these trivial pieces of malicious gossip. In reality he was livid with rage. That he was cursed and reviled by deceitful Moorish tongues was a well-known fact. Not a single day passed without reports of how he was being abused, by whom and in which streets of the city. The list was long, but he would deal with every single offender when the time was ripe. With such thoughts stirring in his head and increasing the flow of bile in his system, it is hardly surprising that the Archbishop’s disposition that particular morning was not generous.
It was at this exact moment that there was a knock on the door.
‘Enter!’ he said in that deceptively weak voice.
Barrionuevo, a royal bailiff, entered the room and kissed the ring. ‘With your permission. Your Grace, the two renegades have fled to the old quarter and taken refuge in the house of their mother.’
‘I do not seem to be familiar with this case. Remind me.’
Barrionuevo cleared his throat. He was not used to declamations or explanations. He was given his orders and he carried them out. He was at a loss for words. He did not know the details of these two men. ‘All I know is their names, Your Grace. Abengarcia and Abenfernando. I am told they convened to our faith ...’
‘I recall them now,’ came the icy response. ‘They pretended to convert, but inside they remained followers of Mahomet’s sect. They were seen committing an act of sacrilege in our church. They urinated on a crucifix, man! Bring them back to me. I want them questioned today. You may go.’
‘Should I take an escort, Your Grace? There might be resistance without it.’
‘Yes, but make sure that there are no more than six armed men with you. Otherwise there will be trouble.’
Ximenes rose from his desk and walked to the arched window from where he could see the streets below him. For the first time that day he smiled, confident in the knowledge that some of the more hot-headed Moors would be provoked by the bailiff and the soldiers to take up arms. That would be the end for them. Instead of taking his usual walk to inspect the construction of the new cathedral, he decided to stay at the al-Hamra and await the return of Barrionuevo. The unpleasantness occasioned by the report from last night’s banquet had receded. In its place there was a feeling of burning excitement. Ximenes fell on his knees before the giant crucifix which disfigured the intricate geometric patterns on the three-colour tiles that comprised the wall.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, I pray that our enemies will not fail me today.’
When he rose to his feet he discovered that the fire burning in his head had spread to just below his waist. That portion of his anatomy which had been placed out of bounds for all those who took the holy orders, was in a state of rebellion. Ximenes poured some water into a goblet and gulped it down without pause. His thirst was quenched.
From the heart of the old city, Zuhayr and his comrades were walking towards the site of the new cathedral in an exaggeratedly casual fashion. They were in groups of two, tense and nervous, behaving as though they had no connection with each other, but united in the belief that they were drawing close to a dual triumph. The hated enemy, the torturer of their fellow-believers, would soon be dead and they, his killers, would be assured of martyrdom and an easy passage to paradise.
They had met for an early breakfast to perfect their plans. Each one of the eight men had risen solemnly in turn and had bidden a formal farewell to the others: ‘Till we meet again in heaven.’
Early that morning Zuhayr had begun to write a letter to Umar, detailing his adventures on the road to Gharnata, describing the painful dilemma which had confronted him and explaining his final decision to participate in the action which was favoured by everyone except himself:
We will set a trap for Cisneros, but even if we succeed in dispatching him, I know full well that we will all, each and every one of us, fall into it ourselves. Everything is very different from what I imagined. The situation for the Gharnatinos has become much worse since your last visit. There is both outrage and demoralization. They are determined to convert us and Cisneros has authorized the use of torture to aid this process. Of course many people submit to the pain, but it drives them mad. After converting they become desperate, walk into churches and excrete on the altar, urinate in the holy font, smear the crucifixes with impure substances and rush out laughing in the fashion of people who have lost their mind. Cisneros reacts with fury and so the whole cycle is repeated. The feeling here is that while Cisneros lives nothing will change except for the worse. I do not believe that his death will improve matters, but it will, without any doubt, ease the mental agony suffered by so many of our people.
I may not survive this day and I kiss all of you in turn, especially Yazid, who must never be allowed to repeat his brother’s mistakes ...
Zuhayr and Ibn Basit were about to cross the road when they saw Barrionuevo the bailiff and six soldiers heading in their direction. Fortunately nobody panicked, but as Barrionuevo halted in front of Zuhayr, the other three groups abandoned the march to their destination and turning leftwards, disappeared back into a warren of narrow side-streets as had been previously agreed.
‘Why are you carrying a sword?’ asked Barrionuevo.
‘Forgive me sir,’ replied Zuhayr. ‘I do not belong to Gharna
ta. I am here for a few days from al-Hudayl to stay with my friend. Is it forbidden to carry swords in the street now?’
‘Yes,’ replied the bailiff. ‘Your friend here should have known better. Be on your way, but first return to your friend’s home and get rid of the sword.’
Ibn Basit and Zuhayr were greatly relieved. They had no alternative but to turn around and walk back to the Funduq. The others were waiting, and there were exclamations of delight when Zuhayr and Ibn Basit entered the room.
‘I thought we had lost you forever,’ said Ibn Amin, embracing the pair of them.
Zuhayr saw the relief on their faces and knew at once that it was not just the sight of Ibn Basit and himself which had relaxed the tension. There was something else. That much was obvious from the satisfied expression on Ibn Amin’s face. Zuhayr looked at his friend and raised his eyebrows expectantly. Ibn Amin spoke.
‘We must cancel our plan. A friend in the palace has sent us a message. Ximenes has trebled his guard and has cancelled his plans to visit the city today. I felt there was something strange in the air. Did you notice that the streets were virtually deserted?’
Zuhayr could not conceal his delight.
‘Allah, be praised!’ he exulted. ‘Fate has intervened to prevent our sacrifice. But you are right, Ibn Amin. The atmosphere is tense. Why is this so? Has it anything to do with the royal bailiff’s errand?’
While they continued to speculate and began to discuss whether they should venture back to the streets and investigate the situation, an old servant of the Funduq ran into their room.
‘Pray masters, please hurry to the Street of the Water-Carriers. The word is that you should take your weapons.’
Zuhayr picked up his sword again. The others uncovered their daggers as they rushed out of the Funduq al-Yadida. They did not have to search very hard to find the place. What sounded like a low humming noise was getting louder and louder. It seemed as if the whole population of the quarter was on the streets.
Through the fringed horseshoe arches of homes and workshops, more and more people were beginning to pour out on to the streets. The beating of copperware, the loud wails and an orchestra of tambourines had brought them all together. Water-carriers and carpet-sellers mingled with fruit merchants and the faqihs. It was a motley crowd and it was angry, that much was obvious to the conspirators of the Funduq, but why? What had happened to incite a mass which, till yesterday, had seemed so passive?
A stray acquaintance of Ibn Amin, a fellow Jew, coming from the scene of battle, excitedly told them everything that had happened till the moment he had to leave in order to tend his sick father.
‘The royal bailiff and his soldiers went to the house of the widow in the Street of the Water-Carriers. Her two sons had taken refuge there last night. The bailiff said that the Archbishop wished to see them today. The widow, angered by the arrival of soldiers, would not let them into the house. When they threatened to break down the door she poured a pan of boiling water from the balcony.
‘One of the soldiers was badly burnt. His screams were horrible.’
The memory choked the storyteller’s voice and he began to tremble.
‘Calm down, friend,’ said Zuhayr, stroking his head. ‘There is no cause for you to worry. Tell me what happened afterwards.’
‘It got worse, much worse,’ began Ibn Amin’s friend. ‘The bailiff was half-scared and half-enraged by this defiance. He ordered his men to break into the house and arrest the widow’s sons. The commotion began to attract other people and soon there were over two hundred young men, who barricaded the street at both ends. Slowly they began to move towards the bailiff and his men. One of the soldiers got so scared that he wet himself and pleaded for mercy. They let him go. The others raised their swords, which was fatal. The people hemmed them in so tight that the soldiers were crushed against the wall. Then the son of al-Wahab, the oil merchant, lifted a sword off the ground. It had been dropped by one of the soldiers. He walked straight to the bailiff and dragged him into the centre of the street. “Mother,” he shouted to the widow who was watching everything from the window. “Yes, my son,” she replied with a joyous look on her face. “Tell me,” said Ibn Wahab. “How should this wretch be punished?” The old lady put a finger to her throat. The crowd fell silent. The bailiff, Barrionuevo by name, fell to the ground, pleading for mercy. He was like a trapped animal. His head touched Ibn Wahab’s feet. At that precise moment the raised sword descended. It only took one blow. Barrionuevo’s severed head fell on the street. A stream of blood is still flowing in the Street of the Water-Carriers.’
‘And the soldiers?’ asked Zuhayr. ‘What have they done to the soldiers?’
‘Their fate is still under discussion in the square. The soldiers are being guarded by hundreds of armed men at the Bab al-Ramla.’
‘Come,’ said Zuhayr somewhat self-importantly to his companions. ‘We must take part in this debate. The life of every believer in Gharnata may depend on the outcome.’
The crowds were so thick that every street in the maze had become virtually impassable. Either you moved with the crowd or you did not move at all. And still the people were coming out. Here were the tanners from the rabbad al-Dabbagan, their legs still bare, their skin still covered with dyes of different colours. The tambourine makers had left their workshops in the rabbad al-Difaf and joined the throng. They were adding to the noise by extracting every sound possible from the instrument. The potters from the rabbad al-Fajjarin had come armed with sacks full of defective pots, and marching by their side, also heavily armed, were the brick-makers from the rabbad al-Tawwabin.
Suddenly Zuhayr saw a sight which moved and excited him. Scores of women, young and old, veiled and unveiled, were carrying aloft the silken green and silver standards of the Moorish knights, which they and their ancestors had sewn and embroidered for over five hundred years in the rabbad al-Bunud. They were handing out hundreds of tiny silver crescents to the children. Young boys and girls were competing with each other to grab a crescent. Zuhayr thought of Yazid. How he would have relished all this and how proudly he would have worn his crescent. Zuhayr had thought he would never see Yazid again, but since his own plan of challenging individual Christian knights to armed combat had collapsed and the plot to assassinate Cisneros had been postponed out of necessity. Zuhayr began to think of the future once again and the image of his brother, studying everything with his intelligent eyes, never left him.
Every street, every alley, resembled a river in flood, flowing in the direction of a buoyant sea of humanity near the Bab al-Ramla Gate. The chants would rise and recede like waves. Everyone was waiting for the storm.
Zuhayr was determined to speak in favour of sparing the soldiers. He suddenly noticed that they were in the rabbad al-Kuhl, the street which housed the producers of antimony. It was here that silver containers were loaded with the liquid, which had enhanced the beauty of countless eyes since the city was first built. This meant that they were not far from the palace of his Uncle Hisham. And underneath that large mansion there was a passage which led directly to the Bab al-Ramla. It had been built when the house was constructed, precisely in order to enable the nobleman or trader living in it to escape easily when he was under siege by rivals whose cause had triumphed and whose faction had emerged victorious in the never-ending palace conflicts which always cast a permanent shadow on the city.
Zuhayr signalled to his friends to follow him in silence. He knocked on the deceptively modest front door of Hisham’s house. An old family retainer looked through a tiny latticed window on the first floor and recognized Zuhayr. He rushed down the stairs, opened the door and let them all in, but appeared extremely agitated.
‘The master made me swear not to admit any person today except members of the family. There are spies everywhere. A terrible crime has been committed and Satan’s monk will want his vengeance in blood.’
‘Old friend,’ said Zuhayr with a benevolent wink. ‘We are not here to stay, but to d
isappear. You need not even tell your master that you let us in. I know the way to the underground passage. Trust in Allah.’
The old man understood. He led them to the concealed entrance in the courtyard and lifted a tile to reveal a tiny hook. Zuhayr smiled. How many times had he and Ibn Hisham’s children left the house after dark for clandestine assignments with lovers via this very route. He tugged gently at the hook and lifted a square cover, cleverly disguised as a set of sixteen tiles. He helped his friends down the hole and then joined them, but not before he had embraced the servant, who had been with his uncle ever since Zuhayr could remember.
‘May Allah protect you all today,’ said the old man as he replaced the cover and returned the courtyard to normal.
Within a few minutes, they were at the old market. Zuhayr had feared that the exit to the tunnel might be impossible to lift because of the crowds, but fate favoured them. The cover was raised without any hindrance. As seven men emerged from underneath the floor on to the roofed entrance to the marker, a group of bewildered citizens watched in amazement. The men were followed by a disembodied weapon: Zuhayr had handed his sword through the hole to Ibn Basit, who had preceded him. Now he lifted himself up, replacing the stone immediately so that in the general confusion its exact location would be forgotten.
It was a scene that none of them would forget. They saw the backs of tens of thousands of men, women and children who had assembled near the Bab al-Ramla in a spirit of vengeance. This is where they had stood in 1492 and watched in disbelief as the crescent was hurled down from the battlements of the al-Hamra, accompanied by the deafening noise of bells interspersed with Christian hymns. This is where they had stood in silence last year while Cisneros, the man they called ‘Satan’s priest,’ had burnt their books. And it was in this square only a month later that drunken Christian soldiers had tipped the turbans off the heads of two venerable Imams.
