‘They were saved.’
‘It was an act of savagery, man. Are you too blind to understand?’
‘And yet Your Excellency did not countermand my orders.’
It was Don Inigo’s turn to stare at the priest with anger. The rebuke was just. It had been cowardice on his part, pure cowardice. A courtier, freshly arrived from Ishbiliya, had informed him that the Queen had sent a secret instruction to the Archbishop which included the order to destroy the libraries. He now knew that this had been a fabrication. Cisneros had deliberately misled the courtier and encouraged him to misinform the Captain-General. Don Inigo knew he had been tricked, but it was no excuse. He should have countermanded the order, forced Cisneros out into the open with the supposed message from Isabella. The priest was smiling at him. ‘The man’s a devil,’ the Count told himself. ‘He smiles with his lips, never his eyes.’
‘One flock and one shepherd, Excellency. That is what this country needs if it is to survive the storms that confront our Church in the New World.’
‘You are blissfully unaware of your own good fortune, Archbishop. Had it not been for the Hebrews and the Moors, the natural enemies who have helped you to keep the Church in one piece, Christian heretics would have created havoc in this peninsula. I did not mean to startle you. It is not a very profound thought. I thought you would have worked that out for yourself.’
‘You are wrong, Excellency. It is the destruction of the Hebrews and the Moors which is necessary to preserve our Church.’
‘We are both right in our different ways. I have many people waiting to see me. We must continue this conversation another day.’
And in this brusque fashion the Count of Tendilla informed Ximenes de Cisneros that his audience was over. The priest rose and bowed. Don Inigo stood up, and Cisneros saw him resplendent in his Moorish robes. The priest flinched.
‘I see my clothes displease you just as much as my thoughts.’
‘The two do not appear to be unrelated, Excellency.’
The Captain-General roared with laughter. ‘I do not grudge you the cowl. Why should my robes annoy you? They are so much more comfortable than what is worn at court. I feel buried alive in those tights and doublets whose only function appears to be the constriction of the most precious organs which God saw fit to bestow. This robe which I wear is designed to comfort our bodies, and is not so unlike your cowl as you might imagine. These clothes are designed to be worn in their Alhambra. Anything else would clash with the colours of these intricate geometric patterns. Surely even you can appreciate that, Friar. I think there is a great deal to be said for communicating directly with the Creator without the help of graven images, but I am approaching blasphemy and I do not wish to upset or detain you any further…’
The prelate’s lips curled into a sinister smile. He muttered something under his breath, bowed and left the room. Don Inigo looked out of the window. Underneath the palace was the Albaicin, the old quarter where the Muslims, Jews and Christians of this town had lived and traded for centuries. The Captain-General was buried in his own reflections of the past and present when he heard a discreet cough and turned round to see his Jewish major-domo, Ben Yousef, carrying a tray with two silver cups and a matching jar containing coffee.
‘Excuse my intrusion, Excellency, but your guest has been waiting for over an hour.’
‘Heavens above! Show him in, Ben Yousef. Immediately.’
The servant retreated. When he returned it was to usher Umar into the audience-chamber.
‘His Graciousness, Umar bin Abdallah, Your Excellency.’
Umar saluted Don Inigo in the traditional fashion.
‘Peace be upon you, Don Inigo.’
The Count of Tendilla moved towards his guest with arms outstretched and hugged him.
‘Welcome, welcome, Don Homer. How are you, my old friend? No formalities between us. Please be seated.’
This time Don Inigo sat on the cushions laid near the window and asked Umar to join him there. The major-domo poured coffee and served the two men. His master nodded to him and he moved backwards out of the chamber. Umar smiled.
‘I am glad you retained his services.’
‘You did not come all this way to compliment me on my choice of servants, Don Homer.’
Umar and Don Inigo had known each other since they were children. Their grandfathers had fought against each other in legendary battles which had long since become part of the folklore on both sides, then the two heroes had become close friends and begun to visit each other regularly. Both grandfathers knew the true costs of war and were greatly entertained by the myths surrounding their names.
In the years before 1492, Inigo had called his friend Homer simply because he had difficulties in pronouncing the Arabic ‘U’. The use of the prefix ‘Don’ was more recent. It could be dated very precisely to the Conquest of Gharnata. There was no point in taking offence. In his heart, Umar knew that Don Inigo was no longer his friend. In his mind he suspected that Don Inigo felt the same about himself. The two men had not met for several months. The whole sad business was a charade, but appearances had to be maintained. It could not be admitted that all chivalry had been extinguished by the Reconquest.
Good relations had been kept up through the regular exchange of fruits and sweetmeats on their respective feast-days. Last Christmas had been the only exception. Nothing had arrived at the Captain-General’s residence at the al-Hamra from the family of Hudayl. Don Inigo was hurt but not surprised. The wall of fire had preceded Christ’s birthday by a few weeks. Umar bin Abdallah was not the only Muslim notable to have boycotted the celebrations.
It was with the express purpose of repairing the breach that now existed between them, that Don Inigo had sent for his old friend. And here he was, just as in the old days, sipping his coffee as he stared through the carved tracery of the window. Except that in years gone by, Umar would have been seated with the Sultan Abu Abdallah as a member of his council, giving advice to the ruler regarding Gharnata’s relations with its Christian neighbours.
‘Don Homer, I know why you are angry. You should have stayed at home that night. What was it that your grandfather once told mine? Ah, yes, I remember. When the eye does not see the heart cannot grieve. I want you to know that the decision was not mine. It was Cisneros, the Queen’s Archbishop, who decided to burn your books of learning.’
‘You are the Captain-General of Gharnata, Don Inigo.’
‘Yes, but how could I challenge the will of Queen Isabella?’
‘By reminding her of the terms which she and her husband signed in this very room, in your presence and mine, over eight years ago. Instead you remained silent and averted your eyes as one of the greatest infamies of the civilized world was perpetrated in this city. The Tatars who burned down the Baghdad library over two centuries ago were illiterate barbarians, frightened of the written word. For them it was an instinctive act. What Cisneros has done is much worse. It is cold-blooded and carefully planned…’
‘I…’
‘Yes, you! Your Church put the axe to a tree that afforded free shade for all. You think it will benefit your side. Perhaps, but for how long? A hundred years? Two hundred? It is possible, but in the long run this stunted civilization is doomed. It will be overtaken by the rest of Europe. Surely you understand that it is the future of this peninsula which has been destroyed. The men who set fire to books, torture their opponents and burn heretics at the stake will not be able to build a house with stable foundations. The Church’s curse will damn this peninsula.’
Umar felt himself going out of control and stopped suddenly. A weak smile appeared on his face.