The Trusted One put his arm around the peasant’s shoulders. ‘Can you read and write?’
He nodded. ‘My mother was a cook and worked for Ibn Omar’s family. So I used to play with the children and learnt to read and write with them.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘Nothing. The Lombards, most of them could not read, threw out all the books from the library and lit them, but Allah decided it would rain that day. We children saved the books and they are hidden in different homes. I never stopped reading even when I couldn’t understand more than three sentences on a page. My wife has named me Ibn al-Kitab.’
The others laughed, but the Trusted One hid his delight at discovering such an erudite peasant. Open praise would have excited the envy of the others.
‘Ibn al-Kitab is a good name. I need you to question everyone and compile a register. I want to know which peasant worked on which field, how many hours were worked before and after the Nazarenes came. Then I want you to compile another register dividing the land equally between all the peasant families. This register must be backdated thirty years. I will sign the deeds on behalf of Hamza ibn Omar. This is to safeguard all of you against any authority. You had nothing to do with burning the Bishop or killing the Lombards. Blame the men who came from outside. In any case, why should you wish to kill anyone when your lord gifted the land to you thirty years ago? One more request to all of you. You must consult everyone before you reach your decision. Twelve of my men wish to settle here. They will work alongside you and, if it ever becomes necessary, defend you. But they must have an equal share in the land.’
The twenty or so peasants accompanying him nodded gratefully, assuring him that there would be no problem about his men. But he insisted that the village should decide this collectively. Ibn al-Kitab asked, ‘When you say the land should be divided equally, does that include Yuhanna, the monk?’
‘Does his family live here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then he must be included. We can afford to be generous. There is a great deal of land, as we have just seen, and best to share it with everyone.’
As they were walking back, Ibn al-Kitab whispered, ‘I would be honoured if you would join us for the evening meal.’
‘I would like that and then you can show me some of the books you saved from the fire.’
Later that afternoon, after the peasants had returned from work a large mehfil was convened in the square. Ibn al-Kitab spoke of the plan that had been suggested by the Trusted One. It was greeted with shouts of joy. Then a semi-spontaneous chant erupted, during which the Trusted One’s men remained silent: ‘Long life to the Amir al-Jihad.’
The Trusted One rose. He told them it was their own strength that would now take them forward. He could do no more for them. Within a week they would have the deeds to their land and the register must be kept hidden in a safe place known only to ten families. It was only to be shown to the Emir of Siracusa or his agents, never to the Lombard who would immediately destroy it. That they were involved in a deception was undeniable, but he felt sure that Allah and God and the Prophets Muhammad and Isa would forgive them because they were correcting a grievous injustice that had been done. All that was necessary was that they tell the same story to anyone from outside who asked questions regarding the land. And he made one last appeal. The land now belonged to them, but he would urge them to make sure each family was fed, had milk and water and fruit before they sold the produce in the market. And they should make sure to rebuild their mosque. As he walked away from the throng, people of all ages touched him in silent appreciation. Ibn al-Kitab took his arm. ‘Trusted One, if you could achieve the same in other places on this island we could raise an army that would take Palermo.’
‘It will not be so easy elsewhere.’
It began to rain and both men were drenched by the time they reached Ibn al-Kitab’s house. The Trusted One was shivering and his new friend insisted he change his tunic. A clean shirt and loose trousers were placed on the bed in an adjoining room where he could undress and dry himself. The Trusted One began to weep from a well of tears deep inside him. When he had recovered he changed into the dry clothes. They hung loose on him. He could not remember the last time he had worn a clean shirt or trousers. Beneath the uncouth bearded figure in a tunic that had never been washed was revealed the noble profile of an Amir.
In the front room, she was smiling with two young boys and a proud husband at her side. He kissed each boy on the head. Even her voice reminded him of Bulbula.
‘We are honoured by your presence, Trusted One. News of you had reached us many months ago, but we wondered whether you were real or an apparition. I’m glad you’re real. Please be seated. The children are going to bed and your meal is almost ready.’
The two men remained silent till Ibn al-Kitab showed him a book the sight of which made him stand up in excitement. It was Ibn Rushd’s The Incoherence of the Incoherent, a spirited defence of Reason as something separate from Divine Truth.
‘This was in the library?’
‘Yes. This is the one I cannot understand, however hard I try.’
‘It is difficult, but it is the most courageous text produced by our philosophers. I myself have only read extracts. May I borrow it to read while I am here?’
‘I was going to give it to you.’
Tears came to The Trusted One’s eyes. ‘It should belong to everyone. When the mosque has been rebuilt it will contain a small library for books other than al-Quran, which as Allah knows, we have read so often that we can remember each verse.’
Then she re-entered the room and he could no longer contain himself.
‘May I ask your name?’
‘Zainab.’
‘Forgive my abruptness. You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago in another life. You resemble her so strongly that with your permission I would like to ask you another question.’
Zainab’s face paled. ‘You may ask me whatever you like.’
‘You were born here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your parents have lived here always?’
‘Yes, except in bad times, when my mother obtained employment in Noto. Like my mother-in-law, she is an excellent cook.’
‘Do you know where she worked?’
‘Yes. It was only for a few years and before I was born, but she talked about it often enough. She worked for a merchant, a widower who had a very beautiful daughter. She died in sad circumstances.’
‘Could I trouble you for a bowl of water, please.’
He was trembling and they thought he was cold and gave him a blanket.
‘Is your mother still alive, Zainab?’
‘Allah be praised, she will be here very soon with our meal. When we told her you were coming she insisted on cooking. My father died a few years ago.’
‘Is her name Halima?’
Now it was Zainab’s turn to be surprised. Before she could question him, the door opened and they rushed to help the old woman bring the food indoors. She saw the Trusted One and came and touched his head and blessed him. Then he spoke in a voice she knew.
‘Halima, you did not recognise me?’
She almost dropped a pot and turned around. He hid his beard. Her voice became weak. ‘Ibn Zubair, is it really you?’
She was the only person left in this world who knew his real name. He embraced her and they both began to weep. When they had recovered he swore them all to secrecy.