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‘You don’t want to share Abi with her, or do you? Nothing that you sisters do could surprise me. Are you pregnant, Ummi?’

‘I think so, I’m not sure yet.’

‘I wonder which of you will be first?’

Their conversation was interrupted by the return of the men. Idrisi entered the room with the Amir, who was offered a bath and refreshments, but declined.

He wanted to speak with his wife. Ibn Fityan escorted him to the guest chamber.

‘What is going on, Muhammad?’ asked Mayya. ‘And you should know that our daughter is aware of everything. She eavesdropped on me and Balkis in Siracusa…’

‘Overheard Ummi and Aunt Balkis in Siracusa,’ Elinore cut in.

Moments later, the Amir and a strangely exultant Balkis joined them. The Amir hugged his niece and asked about life outside the palace. She replied it was still too early to judge.

Then he turned to Mayya. ‘I am so grateful to my dear friend, Ibn Muhammad, for agreeing that Balkis should stay here for a few months. I will be travelling to various villages and towns in our region and she would be lonely in the palace on her own. She said she would accompany me on my journeys, but the situation is dangerous. Some monasteries have already been set on fire. With your permission, I will leave now. If Ibn Fityan would accompany me, I might reach my ship sooner. May Allah protect you all.’

The three women did not look at each other. Elinore, finding it difficult to contain her mirth, excused herself and left the room. Mayya and Balkis smiled vacantly.

Idrisi walked out with the Amir and bade him farewell. ‘Do not worry about Balkis. She will be well looked after.’

‘In these uncertain times,’ replied her husband, ‘it’s the only thing of which I am sure.’

THIRTEEN

The Trusted One frees a village and gives battle to the Lombard barbarians. The sweet scent of victory. Life and fate.

AT FIVE O’ CLOCK in the morning the messenger sent by the Trusted One returned to the rough encampment. Autumn was nearing its end and the recent rains had veiled the countryside around Noto in green. The streams that wound their way from the small hills to the flat ground where the villages had been built were swollen once again. A slight chill in the air and the restless mules were an indication that thunder and more rain were on the way.

The messenger went to the rough shelter under which the Trusted One rested. ‘Master, I delivered your message to our people. The men were frightened, but they will help as you requested. They say there are almost three hundred well-armed Lombard barbarians. Most of them live in the castle on the estate of Bishop John. They say these men steal our crops and harass our women each day because they have nothing else to do.’

‘Did you tell them that the children and women should leave the village before sunrise and find shelter elsewhere today?’

The messenger nodded.

‘They will. They were fearful that hostages might be taken and spoke of a village a day’s ride from here where some years ago the children had been taken and killed, and their heads put on pikes and left to rot. It was a fearful story.’

‘You have done well. Go and eat something. In a few hours we will surprise the barbarians.’

The news of Philip’s death had reached the Trusted One over two weeks ago. He had decided against immediate reprisals for the simple reason that he assumed the enemy might be prepared. This turned out to be true. When the Bishop returned from the trial and burning he had alerted his mercenaries and they were prepared, but when they saw that there was no reaction, not even after the Bishop had announced Philip’s death as a warning to all those who attempted to deceive the Church and God, they had relaxed their guard once again.

The Trusted One rose and covered his shoulders with a blanket. The men were eating stale bread, dipping it in warmed olive oil flavoured with wild thyme and garlic. He went for a short walk on his own till he found a spot, close to a stream. He lifted his tunic and squatted on the ground. Allah be thanked, he could allow his bowels to move without fear of disturbance. After he had washed himself in the stream, he climbed the small hill and saw the village they were about to attack. To his men he appeared to speak with great authority, but this was the first time he had led people to fight and he knew that some of them would die. Yesterday, before the evening prayer, he had spoken to them for almost three hours to explain why they had to do what they were going to do.

His own religious beliefs were undogmatic and contradictory, a result of the numerous theological discussions and fierce debates from his years in the seminary in Cairo. Excited by the texts emanating from al-Andalus, he had abandoned his family and left for Qurtuba and then Siqilliya.

That had been twenty years ago. Soon after his arrival he had met a young woman in Noto, the daughter of a wealthy merchant, and they had loved each other, but since he had no worldly possessions the merchant had forbidden the marriage. And so she had killed herself. He had become a mystic, wandering from village to village. The merchant, mortified by what he had done, died soon afterwards of a broken heart and since the dead girl had been his only child he had left his property to the Trusted One, if only he could be found. When news reached him of this he had returned to Noto, sold the house and the merchandise and distributed the money to the poor. Then he returned to his wanderings.

Now he — without any experience of military encounters — was on the verge of a battle. He had instructed his followers to hide their weapons underneath their clothes and adopt the demeanour of crushed and broken peasants. The plan had been carefully elaborated. They left the encampment while it was still not fully light, a hundred and fifty of them, mostly riding mules, with only a dozen on horseback. The latter had special instructions. The Trusted One rode a mule at the head of the procession. Nothing could have appeared less threatening. As they reached the gates of the castle they were asked their business.

‘We are poor pilgrims,’ replied the Trusted One. ‘We used to believe in the false Prophet Muhammad, but have seen the error of our ways and wish to convert to the true faith so we can worship in church. There was none in our village so we came to the Bishop to see if he could baptise us. We have offerings for the Bishop.’

Although it was still early and most of the guards were fast asleep, they were allowed into the compound. The Bishop, on learning that his treasury was about to be enhanced and souls saved, hurriedly put on his cassock, pushed the young man in his bed aside and hurried to greet the pilgrims.

‘Which of you speaks for these men?’ he inquired.

‘Each speaks for himself,’ replied the Trusted One.

As the Bishop approached, three men grabbed him, covered his mouth and dragged him away. Seeing this, the local peasants who had remained hidden, emerged from every side with piles of wood with which they surrounded the castle. Oil was poured on the wood and soon they drew back. The castle was on fire. As they felt the heat, the Lombard mercenaries rushed out, many of them naked, but with swords in their hands. It was too late. The Trusted One led the charge and his men followed. It was a onesided battle and an unpleasant one. Not a single Lombard survived. When the castle was truly alight, the Bishop was dragged inside, and the villagers would later recall that the Trusted One stood on a wooden platform, raised his voice so all could hear and said: ‘That is for Philip al-Mahdia.’

These were the lamentable consequences of an unspoken civil war inaugurated by the trial and death of Philip that would, in the years that followed, lead to revolts in every corner of the island.

By midday the castle had become a ruin. The whole village had gathered to watch the dying blaze. Some of the women walked up to the dead Lombards and spat on them. The Trusted One understood their anger, but discouraged such acts and ordered that all the dead be given a proper burial. He had lost only six men, who were lovingly bathed, enshrouded and buried near the site of the old mosque. The village offered prayers at the funeral of the martyrs.