He chuckled. ‘Old age must have softened her. Are the children asleep?’
His daughters nodded.
‘And am I correct in assuming that you have prepared the lamb according to your mother’s instructions?’
Samar laughed. ‘We weren’t sure you would return today, but a messenger from the palace arrived some hours ago to inform us that your ship had been sighted and you would be home tonight. The garlic and herbs travelled with us from Noto.’
He smiled appreciatively. ‘I hope, like you, they retained their freshness.’
Before either of them could reply he clapped his hands, raised his voice slightly and summoned the steward of the household. ‘Is my bath ready, Ibn Fityan?’
The eunuch bowed. ‘Thawdor is waiting to rub oil on Your Excellency’ and the bath attendants have their instructions. Will Your Honour eat inside or on the terrace?’
‘Let my daughters decide.’
Usually, when he lay on the slab of marble, he let the Greek do his work in silence. Not today. ‘Do you have any children, Thawdor?’
The masseur was shocked. In the six years he had served in the household, the master had barely spoken to him.
‘Yes, my lord. I have three boys and a girl.’
‘I suppose two of the boys have been pledged to the Church?’
‘I believe in Allah and his Prophet, but my wife is a Nazarene and insisted on having one of them baptised.’
Now it was Idrisi’s turn to be surprised. ‘But your name is Greek and I thought…’
‘My name is Thawdor ibn Ghafur, O Commander of the Pen. My mother was Greek and even though she converted to our faith, she insisted on the name of her grandfather Thawdorus for me. My poor father, who could deny her nothing, agreed.’
Idrisi’s curiosity had been aroused. He would ask Rujari to organise a register of all the mixed marriages on the island.
‘What about your boys?’
‘They are young men now. The youngest was on your ship on this last voyage. His mother will be happy to see him again.’
On hearing this, the master of the house became agitated. He rose, draped a towel around his naked body and clapped his hands for the bath attendants. Two young men entered the room and bowed.
‘Thawdor, describe your boy.’
Idrisi was now sure. ‘Simeon? I spoke with him on the ship. Why did he not tell me that you were his father?’
‘It probably did not occur to him. I’m amazed he had the effrontery to address you, master.’
‘I spoke to him first. The boy is sensitive and intelligent. What he cannot speak is expressed through the flute. He is a gifted boy and must be educated. I will speak to old Younis at the palace and see whether we can find a tutor for him.’
Tears filled Thawdor’s eyes. ‘Your kindness is well known, sir. The boy’s mother might even pray to Allah to reward your goodness.’
Idrisi nodded and the attendants escorted him to the bath next door. They soaped and scrubbed him with the most exquisitely soft sponges. Then he was ready to be dried and dressed. By the time he reached the terrace, the tiredness had been removed from his body. And the lamb was ready to be consumed. How odd it was, eating with his daughters. Why in Allah’s name were they here at all? He did not believe they had come all this way in order for him to see his grandchildren. It was not in their character. Nor, now that he thought about it, was the trouble they must have taken to prepare the lamb. Their mother Zaynab must have whispered nonsense in their ears: ‘Flatter the old man, make him feel you love him, make sure the lamb is cooked in the special way he likes, wait till he has tasted it and then ask what you need to ask.’ The memory of her insinuating voice and the false flattery was not pleasant and he was irritated with himself for having thought of it. It was bound to give him indigestion.
And where were the girls’ husbands? Suddenly he realised that they had come to plead on behalf of their men. Something must have happened. There was always unrest in Noto and in the countryside surrounding Siracusa. In the palace it was referred to as banditry, but he knew it was much more. Well, he would listen when the time came.
He enjoyed the food. The lamb was succulent and tasty, the vegetables fresh and the flask of wine sent by the palace, tasted by Ibn Fityan and pronounced free of poison, had revived his spirits. Noticing this, Samar and Sakina exchanged a knowing look, while Idrisi thought to himself how like their mother the two were.
Nature had not endowed them with his looks or physique. As he recalled Zaynab, whom his father had compelled him to marry and whom he had glimpsed for the first time on the day of his wedding, he shivered at the memory of that night. There had been no light-hearted pleasure for either of them and even now it was a mystery to him how they produced four children. His mother claimed the credit. She told the entire family of how, aware of the problem, she had insisted that Muhammad drink an unpleasant concoction of boiled coffee-plant leaves sweetened with date juice, whose aphrodisiacal effects had first been noticed by the medicine men of Ifriqiya. And, in those early years, on each occasion — not that there were too many of them — that he mounted his wife, he could smell the bitter taste of the leaves. His mother remained convinced that without it he would not have succeeded in producing four children.
If Zaynab’s character had been different he would not have encouraged her departure from Palermo. But she possessed no redeeming qualities, none. Her loud voice heaping abuse on the household servants angered him greatly. And it was even worse when she praised him. He never thought of what it must have been like for her, growing up in a wealthy nobleman’s household, frowned upon by everyone because of her looks, the result of too much inbreeding. He knew that and would sometimes remark to Marwan or Ibn Hamid how the Arabs paid more attention to ensuring thoroughbred horses than their own children. It was not Zaynab’s fault but why had Allah not given her a few brains to compensate?
That Zaynab’s features had been reproduced in both the daughters might have been a misfortune but for the position Idrisi occupied at Court. They had married men from the Arab nobility in Siracusa, whose forebears had arrived from Ifriqiya and laid siege to the city a few hundred years after the Prophet’s death. The girls’ dowries had been generous, their husbands not unkind and, more important, they had managed to perform their duties without the aid of coffee leaves. Children were produced, a son for Samar, and twins — a son and a daughter — for Sakina. The future was secure. The land was now safe, a fair portion already registered in the name of the two boys to avoid property disputes and, at the same time, to reassure the women and their father that whatever else happened the inheritance could not be challenged. Their sons were their official heirs. Having exerted themselves mightily in order to achieve this, the two husbands had moved on and, compatible with their religious beliefs, had begun to till other pastures. It did not take long for Samar and Sakina to realise that there would be no more children. As for the pleasures of the bedchamber, a luxury lost.
It was while they were sipping mint tea after the meal that their father decided to strike first. ‘My children, you know me well enough to understand that I detest those who hide their real thoughts in the depth of their hearts and speak of something else. I know full well you have not come here out of the goodness of your hearts, but because you need something from me. I have no idea what it is, but I am your father and will help you. But in Allah’s name I ask you to speak now and speak the truth.’
The women panicked, unsure as to whether this was the right moment to discuss their problems. They had thought it best to wait till the next morning when the presence of the children might make their father more receptive to their needs. Sakina made a brave, if feeble, attempt to create a diversion.