‘You claimed you knew why they called me al-Fahl. I will have to think hard to come up with something equally sharp to explain to you why you acquired such a name.’
‘The answer is simple. It describes me well. I am, after all, a sceptic, an ecstatic freethinker!’
Both of them laughed. As the horseman arrived outside the cave, they stood up and Zuhayr, impulsive as usual, hugged the old man and kissed his cheeks. Al-Zindiq was moved by the gesture. Before he could say anything the messenger coughed gently.
‘Come in, man. Enter. Is it a message from my father?’ said Zuhayr.
The boy nodded. He was barely thirteen years old.
‘Excuse me, my lord, but the master says you must return at once. They were expecting you back for breakfast.’
‘Good. You climb on that mule you call a horse and ride back. Tell them I am on my way. Wait. I’ve changed my mind. Go back now. I will overtake you in a few minutes. I will greet my father myself. There are no messages.’
The boy nodded, and was about to leave when al-Zindiq stopped him. ‘Come here, son. Are you thirsty?’
The boy looked at Zuhayr, who nodded slightly. The boy eagerly took the cup of water he was being offered and drank it in one gulp.
‘Here, take a few dates for your ride back. You will have time to eat them after the young master has overtaken you.’
The boy gratefully accepted the fruit, bowed to the men and was soon to be seen coaxing his horse to retrace their route to the mountain.
‘Peace be upon you, Wajid al-Zindiq.’
‘And you, my son. Could I request a favour?’
‘Whatever you like.’
‘When your father permitted me to live here a quarter of a century ago he insisted on one condition and that alone. My lips were to remain sealed on all affairs concerning his family. If he were ever to discover that this condition had been breached, his permission would be withdrawn. And so would the supplies of food which your mother has so kindly organized for me. My future depends on your silence. There is nowhere else left for me to go.’
Zuhayr was outraged.
‘But this is unacceptable. It is unjust. It is not like my father. I will…’
‘You will do nothing. Your father may have been wrong, but he had his reasons. I want your pledge that you will remain silent.’
‘You have my word. I swear on the al-koran…’
‘Your word alone is sufficient.’
‘Of course, al-Zindiq, but in return I want your promise that you will complete the story.’
‘I had every intention of doing so.’
‘Peace be upon you then, old man.’
Al-Zindiq walked to where Khalid was tethered and smiled appreciatively as Zuhayr jumped on to his bare back. Al-Zindiq patted the horse.
‘Riding a horse without a sack…’
‘I know,’ shouted Zuhayr, ‘… is like riding on a devil’s back. If that were true, all I can say is that the devil must have a comfortable back.’
‘Peace be upon you, al-Fahl. May your house flourish,’ shouted the old man with a grin on his face as Zuhayr galloped down the hill.
For a while al-Zindiq stood there silently appreciating the skill of the departing horseman.
‘I used to ride like that once. You remember don’t you, Zahra?’
There was no reply.
Chapter 3
YAZID HAD WOKEN UP from his afternoon sleep, trembling slightly, with sweat pouring down his face. His mother, lying next to him, was anxious at seeing her last-born in this state. She wiped his face with a linen cloth soaked in rose-water and felt his forehead. It was as cool as the afternoon breezes in the courtyard. There was no cause for alarm.
‘Are you feeling unwell my son?’
‘No. I just had a strange dream. It was so real, Ummi. Why are afternoon dreams more real? Is it because our sleep is lighter?’
‘Perhaps. Want to tell me about it?’
‘I dreamt of the Mosque in Qurtuba. It was so beautiful, Mother. And then Great-Uncle Miguel entered and began to pour bottles of blood everywhere. I tried to stop him, but he hit me…’
‘What we see in dreams outdoes reality,’ Zubayda interrupted him. She did not like the continuous attacks on Miguel which the children were fed by Ama, and so she tried to divert her son’s mind. ‘But all that one could dream of the Great Mosque in Qurtuba falls short of the truth. One day we shall take you to see its magnificent arches. As for Miguel…’ She sighed.
Zuhayr, on his way to the bath, had overheard the conversation and entered his mother’s room silently, just in time to hear Yazid’s condemnation of the Bishop of Qurtuba.
‘I don’t like him. I never have. He always squeezes my cheeks too hard. Ama says one can’t expect anything better. She said that his mother, the Lady Asma, didn’t like him either. You know, Mother, once I heard Ama and the Dwarf talking to each other about the Lady Asma. Ama said that it was Miguel who killed her. Is that true?’
Zubayda’s face turned ashen. She gave an unconvincing little laugh. ‘What foolishness is this? Of course Miguel did not kill his mother! Your father would be shocked to hear you talk in this fashion. Your Ama talks a lot of nonsense. You must not believe everything she says.’
‘Are you sure of that, Mother?’ asked Zuhayr in a mocking tone.
His voice startled both of them. Yazid leapt up and jumped straight into his arms. The brothers embraced and kissed each other. Their mother smiled.
‘The cub is safely back with its protector. You were greatly missed this morning. Yazid has been wandering about annoying everyone including himself. What did that old man have to say that was so interesting?’
Zuhayr’s answer to the predictable question had been carefully worked out on his ride back to the house.
‘The tragedy of al-Andalus. The failure of our way of life to survive. He thinks we are at the terminus of our history. He is a very learned man, Mother. A true scholar. What do you know about him? He simply refuses to talk about himself.’
‘Ask Ama,’ said Yazid. ‘She knows all about him.’
‘I am going to tell Ama that in future she must keep her imagination under control and be careful when Yazid is present.’
Zuhayr smiled, and was about to enter the discussion on Ama and the merits of her many pronouncements, but he suddenly caught his mother’s eye and the warning was clear. She had sat up in bed and a peremptory command soon followed.
‘Go and bathe, Zuhayr. Your hair is full of dust.’
‘And he smells of horse-sweat!’ added Yazid, pulling a face.
The brothers left and Zubayda clapped her hands. Two maids-in-waiting entered the room. One carried a mirror and two combs. Without a word they began to gently massage the head of their mistress, two pairs of hands working in perfect symmetry. The twenty fingers, delicate and firm at the same time, covered the entire area from the forehead to the nape. In the background Zubayda could only hear the sound of water. When she felt her inner balance restored she signalled that they should cease their labours.
The two women settled down on the floor and, as Zubayda shifted her body and positioned herself on the edge of the bed, they began to work on her feet. The younger of the two, Umayma, was new to this task and her nervousness revealed itself in her inability to use the force necessary to knead her mistress’s left heel.
‘What are they saying in the village?’ inquired Zubayda. Umayma had only recently been promoted to wait on her and she wanted to put the girl at her ease. The young maid-servant blushed on being addressed by her mistress and mumbled a few incoherent thoughts about the great respect everyone in the village had for the Banu Hudayl. Her older and more experienced colleague, Khadija, came to the rescue.