by Tariq Ali
‘I wish you could come with me for a while. I really do,’ she had told him the day before she left. ‘I’m not leaving you, just this house. I could not bear the thought of living here with Ibn Daud. We must live where he feels comfortable and in control of the surroundings. This is Abu’s house, and after him it will belong to Zuhayr and you and your children. You do understand me, don’t you Yazid? I love you more than before and I will always think of you. Perhaps next year when we come to visit we can take you away for a month or two.’
Yazid had not been able to say very much in response. He had simply clutched her hand tight as they walked back to the house. Yazid did not wish to think about it any more, and was quite relieved at the interruption.
‘Ah! It is the young master himself. And pray what are you doing here on your own?’
The familiar, hateful voice belonged to his father’s chief steward Ubaydallah, who, like his father before him, kept a record of every single transaction enacted on the estate. He had a much better idea of the exact amount of land which Umar owned, or how much rent had accrued in which village, or the exact amount of money from the sale of dried fruits last year, or how much wheat and rice was stored in underground granaries and their specific locations.
Yazid did not like Ubaydallah. The man’s blatant insincerity and his exaggerated show of unfelt affection had never deceived the boy.
‘I was taking a walk,’ replied Yazid in a cold voice as he rose and assumed the most adult posture he could manage. ‘And now I am returning to the house for my midday meal. And you, Ubaydallah? What brings you to the house at this time?’
‘I think the answer to that question had better be given directly to the master. May I walk back with you?’
‘You may,’ replied Yazid as he put both his hands behind his back and strode back towards the house. He had heard Ama say a hundred thousand times that Ubaydallah was a rogue and a thief, that he had stolen land, food and money from the estate for decades and that his son had opened three shops on the proceeds—two in Qurtuba and one in Gharnata. He had decided not to speak to the man for the rest of the journey, but he changed his mind.
‘Tell me something, Ubaydallah.’ Yazid spoke in the unique and infinitely superior tone of a landowner. ‘How are your son’s shops doing? I am told that one can buy any and every luxury in them.’
The question took the old steward by surprise. The insolent young pup, he thought to himself. He must have picked something up from the cartloads of kitchen gossip. Umar bin Abdallah would never stoop to discuss such matters at his table. Aloud he was unctuous to the point of absurdity.
‘How nice of you to think of my boy, young master. He is doing well, thanks be to Allah and, of course, to your family. It was your father who paid for his education and insisted that he find work in the city. It is a debt which can never be repaid. I am told that you are a ferocious reader of books, young master. Everyone in the village talks about it. I told them: “You just wait. Yazid bin Umar will soon begin to write books of learning.”’
Without looking at the man, Yazid smiled in acknowledgement of the remark. The flattery made no impact on him at all. This was not just because Yazid did not trust Ubaydallah. In this respect the boy was very much like his father and mother. Words of praise slipped off him like water off leaves in the fountain. It was a sense of inherited pride. A feeling that the Banu Hudayl was so naturally advantaged that they did not need anybody else’s favours. For Yazid, like his father and grandfather before him, an offering of wheat-cakes sweetened with the syrup of dates from a poor peasant meant much more than the silk shawls showered on the ladies of the house by Ubaydallah and his son. It was what the gift meant to the giver that determined their attitude.
Ubaydallah was babbling on, but the boy had stopped listening. He did not believe any of this nonsense, but the very fact that he had forced Ubaydallah to speak to him as he would have addressed Zuhayr was, he felt, something of a triumph. As they walked through the main gate, known in the village after its builder as Bab al-Farid, Ubaydallah lowered his head in a half-bow. Yazid acknowledged the gesture with an imperceptible nod of his head as they went their separate ways. The elderly man hurried to the kitchen. The boy maintained his posture and did not relax till he had entered the house.
‘Where have you been?’ whispered Umayma outside the dining-room. ‘Everyone else has finished.’
Yazid ignored her and rushed into the room. The first thing he noticed was Ibn Basit’s absence. This depressed him. His face fell. A distant look appeared on his face as he fingered the medallion Hind had left him as a token of her love. Inside it, black like the night, was a lock of her hair.
‘Has he gone, Abu?’
His father nodded as he picked at a dark red grape from the silver tray bedecked with fruit. Zubayda served Yazid some cucumbers cooked in their own water with a dash of clarified butter, black pepper and red chilli seeds. He ate it quickly and then consumed a salad consisting of radishes, onions and tomatoes, soaked in yoghurt and the juice of fresh limes.
‘Did Ibn Basit say anything else? Did he give you any idea when Zuhayr would visit us?’
Zubayda shook her head.
‘He did not know the exact day, but he thought it would be soon. Now will you please have some fruit, Yazid. It will bring the colour back to your cheeks.’
As four servants entered to clear the table, the most senior amongst them knelt on the floor and muttered a few words close to his master’s ear. A look of disdain appeared on Umar’s face. ‘What does he want at this time? Show him to my study and stay there with him till I arrive.’
‘Ubaydallah?’ asked Zubayda.
Umar nodded as his face clouded. Yazid grinned and described his encounter with the steward.
‘Is it true, Abu, that he now owns almost as much land as you?’
The question made Umar laugh.
‘I don’t think so, but I’m the wrong person to ask. I’d better go and see what the rogue wants. It isn’t like him to disturb me just as we are about to rest.’
After Umar had left them, Zubayda and Yazid walked up and down the inner courtyard holding hands and enjoying the winter sun. She saw the look in Yazid’s eyes when they passed the pomegranate tree, under which Ama had spent many a winter day.
‘Do you miss her a lot, my child?’
In reply he tightened his grip on her hand. She bent down and kissed his cheeks and then his eyes.
‘Everyone must die one day, Yazid. One day you will see her again.’
‘Please, Ummi. Please not that. Hind never believed in all that stuff about life in heaven. Nor does al-Zindiq and nor do I.’
Zubayda suppressed a smile. She did not either, but Umar had forbidden her the right to transmit any of her blasphemous thoughts to the children. Well, she thought, Umar has Zuhayr and Kulthum to believe with him, and I have Hind and my Yazid.
‘Ummi,’ he was pleading, ‘why don’t we all go and live in Fes? I don’t mean in the same house as Hind and Ibn Daud, but in our own house.’
‘I would not exchange this house, the streams and rivers which water your lands, the village and those who live in it, for any city in the world. Not Qurtuba, not Gharnata and not even Fes, even though I miss Hind as much as you. She was my friend, too, Yazid. But no. Not for anything would I change all this ... Peace be upon you, al-Zindiq!’
‘And you, my lady. And you, Yazid bin Umar.’
Yazid began to walk away.
‘Where are you ... ?’ began Zubayda.
‘To the tower. I will rest there and read my books.’
Al-Zindiq looked with affection at the boy’s disappearing back. ‘This child has an intellect which puts many old people to shame, but something has changed, my lady, has it not? What is it? Yazid bin Umar looks as if he is in permanent mourning. Is it Amira?’
Zubayda agreed with him. ‘I have a feeling that this child knows everything. As you so rightly said, he knows more than many who are older and wiser.
As to his ailment, I think I know the cause. No, it is not his Ama’s death, though that upset him more than he revealed. It is Hind. Ever since she left the shine has gone from the pupils of his eyes. My heart weeps when I see them so sad and dim.’
‘Children are far more resilient than we are, my lady.’
‘Not this one,’ continued Zubayda. ‘He is having great difficulty in managing his pain. He thinks it is unmanly to show emotions. Hind was his only confidante. Fears, joys, secrets. He told her everything.’
Umar’s return deprived her of the old man’s advice.
‘Peace be upon you al-Zindiq.’ As the old man smiled, Umar spoke to his wife in a light-hearted vein. ‘You will never guess why Ubaydallah came to see me.’
‘It wasn’t money?’
‘Would I be right in thinking,’ suggested al-Zindiq, ‘that our venerable chief steward is being troubled by his conscience on matters of the spirit?’
‘Well spoken, old man. Well spoken. Yes, that is exactly his problem. He has decided to convert, and wanted my permission and my blessings. “Ubaydallah,” I warned him. “Do you realize that you will have to confess all your misdemeanours to a monk before they admit you to their Church? All of them, Ubaydallah! And if they find out that you’ve been lying, they’ll burn you at the stake for being a false Christian.” I could see that this worried him. He made a quick mental calculation as to how many of his petty crimes the Church could uncover and decided that he was safe. Next week he visits Gharnata, and he and that imbecilic son of his will go through that pagan ritual and become Christians. Blood of their blood. Flesh of their flesh. Seeking salvation by praying to the image of a bleeding man on two pieces of wood. Tell me something, al-Zindiq. Why is their faith so deeply marked by human sacrifice?’
A full-scale discussion on the philosophy of the Christian religion was about to begin, but before the old man could reply a scream rent the air. Yazid, out of breath and his face red from the exertion, had come running into the courtyard.
‘Soldiers! Hundreds of them. Like a ring round the village and our house. Come and look.’
Umar and Zubayda followed the boy back to the tower. Al-Zindiq, too old now to climb the stairs, sat down with a sigh on the bench underneath the pomegranate tree.
‘Our future was our past,’ he muttered in his beard.
Yazid had not been deceived. They were surrounded. Trapped like a hunted deer. As Umar strained his eyes, he could make out the Christian standards as well as the soldiers who carried them. A man on horseback was riding excitedly from one group of soldiers to another, obviously giving out instructions. He seemed very young, but he must be the captain.
‘I must go to the village immediately,’ said Umar. ‘We will ride out to meet these men and ask them what they want of us.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Yazid.
‘You must stay at home, my son. There is no one else to guard your mother.’
As Umar came down from the tower he found all the male servants of the house gathered in the outer courtyard, armed with swords and lances. There were only sixty of them, and they were of varying ages which stretched from fifteen to sixty-five, but as they stood there waiting for him he felt a surge of emotion sweep through his body. They were his servants and he was their master, but at times of crisis their loyalty to him transcended everything else.
His horse had been saddled and four of the younger men rode out to the village with him. As they rode through the main gate, an eagle flew over the house in search of prey. The servants exchanged looks. It was a bad omen.
At a distance they could hear a chorus of dogs barking. They, too, felt that something was wrong. For a start nobody was at work. The men and women who toiled in the fields every day from dawn till sunset had run away on seeing the soldiers. The tiny streets of the village were filled with people, but the shops were shut. The last time Umar had witnessed such a scene was the day his father had died after being thrown by a horse. That day, too, all activity had ceased. They had followed the body in silence as it was carried to the house.
Greetings were being exchanged, but the faces were drawn and tense. It was the fear which is born out of uncertainty. Juan the carpenter was running towards them.
‘It is a cursed day, Master,’ he said in a voice breaking with anger. ‘A cursed day. The Prince of Darkness has sent his devils to harass and destroy us.’
Umar jumped off his horse and embraced Juan.
‘Why do you speak in this fashion, my friend?’
‘I have just returned from their camp. They knew I was a Christian and sent for me. They asked me all sorts of questions. Did I know Zuhayr al-Fahl? Did I know how many men from the village were fighting by his side in the al-Pujarras? Did I know that they had killed the noble Don Alonso when his back was turned to them? To the last question I replied that the version I had heard was a different one. Upon which their young captain, whose eyes burn with an evil flame, came and slapped my face. “Are you a Christian?” I replied that my family had never converted and that we had lived in al-Hudayl from the day it was built, but that nobody had ever suggested to us that we should embrace the faith of the Prophet Mohammed. We had lived in peace. Then he said to me: “Would you rather stay with them or come and live with us? We even have a chapel set up in that tent, and there is a priest to hear your confession.” I said that I would happily confess to the monk, but that I wished to stay in the house where I had been born and my father and grandfather before me. At this he laughed. It was a strange laugh and straight away it was imitated by the two young men at his side. “Do not bother with your confession. Get you back to your infidels.”’
‘If they wish to question anyone about Zuhayr they must deal with me,’ said Umar. ‘I will go and see them.’
‘No!’ barked another voice. ‘That you must not do under any circumstances. I was on my way to the house to talk to you.’
It was Ibn Hasd, the cobbler, who as Miguel’s natural brother was Umar’s uncle, but this was the first time he had ever spoken in the capacity of a family member. Umar raised his eyebrows as if to question the reasoning behind such a peremptory instruction.
‘Peace be upon you, Umar bin Abdallah. But the blacksmith Ibn Haritha has just returned. They dragged him off this morning to attend to the horseshoes which needed repair. He did not hear anything specific, but the eyes of the young captain frightened him. He says that even the Christian soldiers fear him as though he were Satan himself.’
‘And,’ continued Juan, ‘that wretch Ubaydallah has taken fifteen villagers with him to their camp. One can only imagine the stories he will tell to save his own neck. You must return to the house, Master, and seal the gate, till this is over.’
‘I will stay in the village,’ replied Umar in a tone that brooked no dissent. ‘We shall wait for Ubaydallah to return and tell us what they demand. Then, if necessary, I shall go and talk to this captain myself.’
THIRTEEN
THE RED-HEADED BEARDLESS CAPTAIN had not dismounted. Why is he still on his horse? This question was nagging Ubaydallah. His work over the last fifty years, as a manager of estates and human beings, had equipped him with an all too rare experience and knowledge which books alone can never provide. He had become an acute observer of human psychology. He had noticed that the captain had been cursed by his maker. His height, not an unimportant matter for a soldier, was not at all in keeping with his fierce disposition. He was stout and short. He could not be more than sixteen years of age. The facts, Ubaydallah was sure, could not be compensated for even by the officer’s military skills.
Once he had surmised this, Ubaydallah fell on his knees before the commander of the Christians. This act of self-abasement nauseated the villagers who had accompanied him. ‘Pig’s pizzle,’ one of them muttered under his breath. Ubaydallah was unworried by their reaction. He had made the captain feel tall. Nothing else mattered on that day. Years of service to the lords of the Banu Hudayl had prepared the steward well for
the task he now sought to accomplish.
‘What is it you want?’ the captain asked him in a nasal voice.
‘My lord, we have come to inform you that the whole village is prepared to convert this very afternoon. All it requires is for Your Excellency to send us a priest and to honour the village by your presence.’
At first the request was greeted by silence. The captain gave no sign of life. He looked down through heavy-lidded, dark blue eyes at the creature kneeling before him. The captain had just turned sixteen, but he was already a veteran of the Reconquest. He had been commended for his courage during three battles in the al-Pujarras. His fearless savagery had brought him to the notice of his superiors.
‘Why?’ he snapped at Ubaydallah.
‘I do not understand, Excellency.’
‘Why have you decided to join the Holy Roman Church?’
‘It is the only true path to salvation,’ replied Ubaydallah, who was never renowned for discriminating between truth and falsehood.
‘You mean it is the only way to save your skins.’
‘No, no, Excellency,’ the old steward began to whine. ‘We Andalusians take a long time to decide anything. It is the result of being governed for hundreds of years by rulers who determined everything. On everything that mattered, they made our decisions for us. Now we are slowly beginning to make up our own minds, but it is not easy to discard an old habit. We are deciding for ourselves, but we take our time and we split hairs ...’
‘How many of you are there in the village?’
‘At the last count we were just over two thousand.’
‘Very well. I shall think of the most appropriate response to your proposal. You may return to your village and await our decision.’
Just as Ubaydallah was about to rise, the captain hurled another question at him and the steward went back on his knees.
‘Is it true that an old standard depicting a blue key on a silver ground above some gibberish in your language still hangs in the palace of Abenfarid?’
