‘Exactly. You can carry on saying that to yourself every day.’
‘Better to die free than live like a slave.’
‘It is stupidity of this very sort which led to the defeat of your faith in this peninsula.’
Umar looked at his cousin, but Ibn Hisham averted his face.
‘Why?’ Umar shouted at him. ‘Why did you not tell me? It is like being stabbed in the heart.’
Ibn Hisham looked up. Tears were pouring down his face. How strange, thought Umar, as he saw the distress on his cousin’s face, when we were young his will was stronger than mine. I suppose it is his new responsibilities, but I have mine and they are greater. For him it is his business, his trade, his family. For me it is the lives of two thousand human beings. And yet the sight of his cousin saddened Umar, and his own eyes filled with tears.
For a moment, as they looked at each other, their eyes heavy with sorrow, Miguel was reminded of their youth. The two boys had been inseparable. This friendship had continued long after they were married. But as they grew older and became absorbed in the cares of their own families, they saw less of each other. The distance between the family home in the village and Ibn Hisham’s dwelling in Gharnata seemed to grow. Yet still, when they met, the two cousins exchanged confidences, discussed their families, their wealth, their future and, naturally, the changes taking place in their world. Ibn Hisham had felt great pain at concealing his decision to convert from Umar. It was the most important moment of his life. He felt that what he was about to do would ensure protection and stability for his children and their children.
Ibn Hisham was a wealthy merchant. He prided himself on his ability to judge human character. He could smell the mood of the city. His decision to become a Christian was on the same level as the decision he had taken thirty years ago to put all his gold into importing brocades from Samarkand. Within a year he had trebled his wealth.
He had no wish to deceive Umar, but he was frightened that his cousin, whose intellectual stubbornness and moral rigour had always inspired a mixture of respect and fear in their extended family, would convince him that he was wrong. Ibn Hisham did not wish to be so persuaded. He confessed all this, hoping that Umar would understand and forgive, but Umar continued to stare at him in anger and Ibn Hisham suddenly felt the temperature of those eyes pierce his head. In the space of a few minutes the gulf between the two men had grown so wide that they were incapable of speaking to each other.
It was Miguel who finally broke the silence. ‘I will come to al-Hudayl tomorrow.’
‘Why?’
‘Are you denying me the right to enter the house where I was born? I simply wish to see my sister. I will not intrude in your life.’
Umar realized that he was in danger of consigning the family code to oblivion. This could not be done and he retreated straight away. He knew that Miguel was determined to speak to Zubayda and convince her of the necessity of conversions. The old rogue thought she might be easier to convince of his nefarious plans. Old devil. He is as transparent as glass.
‘Forgive me, Uncle. My mind was on other matters. You are welcome as always to your home. We shall ride back together at sunrise. Pardon me, I had forgotten you have a baptism to perform. You will have to make your own way, I’m afraid. Now I have a favour to ask of you.’
‘Speak,’ said the Bishop of Qurtuba.
‘I would like to be alone with my uncle’s son.’
Miguel smiled and rose. Ibn Hisham clapped his hands. A servant entered with a lamp and escorted the cleric to his chamber. Both of them felt more relaxed in his absence. Umar looked at his friend, but his eyes were distant. Anger had given way to sorrow and resignation. Foreseeing their separation, which could well be permanent, Ibn Hisham stretched out his hand. Umar clasped it for a second and then let it drop. The grief felt by both of them went so deep that they did not feel the need to say a great deal to each other.
‘Just in case you had any doubts,’ Ibn Hisham began, ‘I want you to know that my reasons have nothing to do with religion.’
‘That is what saddens me deeply. If you had converted genuinely I would have argued and felt sad, but there would have been no anger. No bitterness. But do not worry, I will not even attempt to change your mind. Has the rest of the family accepted your decision?’
Ibn Hisham nodded.
‘I wish time would stop forever.’
Umar laughed out aloud at this remark, and Ibn Hisham flinched. It was a strange laugh like a distant echo.
‘We have just come through one disaster,’ said Umar, ‘and are on the edge of another.’
‘Could anything be worse than what we have just experienced, Umar? They set our culture on fire. Nothing more they can do has the power to hurt me. Being tied to a stake and stoned to death would be a relief by comparison.’
‘Is that why you decided to convert?’
‘No, a thousand times no. It was for my family. For their future.’
‘When I think of the future,’ Umar confessed, ‘I no longer see the deep blue sky. There is no more clarity. All I see is a thick mist, a primal darkness enveloping us all, and in the distant layer of my dreams I recognize the beckoning shores of Africa. I must rest now and say farewell. For tomorrow I will leave before all of you are out of bed.’
‘How can you be so cruel? We will all be up for the morning prayers.’
‘Even on the day of your baptism?’
‘Especially on that day.’
‘Till the morning then. Peace be upon you.’
‘Peace be upon you.’
Ibn Hisham paused for a moment.
‘Umar?’
‘Yes.’
He moved quickly and embraced Umar, who remained passive, his arms by his side. Then as his cousin began to weep again, Umar hugged him and held him tight. They kissed each other’s cheeks and Ibn Hisham led Umar to his room. It was a chamber reserved exclusively for the use of Umar bin Abdallah.
Umar could not sleep. His head was alive with anxious voices. The fatal poison was spreading every day. Despite his public display of firmness, he was racked with uncertainties. Was it fair to expose his children to decades of torture, exile and even death? What right had he to impose his choice on them? Had he raised children only to hand them over to the executioners?
His head began to roar like the noise of an underground river. The savage torments of memory. He was mourning for the forgotten years. The springtime of his life. Ibn Hisham had been with him when he first saw Zubayda, a cape round her shoulders, wandering like a lost soul in the gardens near the al-Hamra. As long as he lived he would never forget that scene. A ray of sunlight had filtered through the foliage to turn her red hair to gold. What struck him at once was her freshness — not a trace of the voluptuous indolence that marred so many of the women in his family. Entranced by her beauty, he had been rooted to the spot. He wanted to go and touch her hair, to hear her speak, to see how the shape of her eyes might alter when she smiled, but he controlled himself. It was forbidden to pluck ripening apricots. On his own he might have let her go and never seen her again. It was Ibn Hisham who had given him the courage to approach her and, in the months that followed, it was Ibn Hisham who kept watch over their clandestine trysts.
Both sides of the pillow were warm when Umar finally fell asleep. His last conscious thought had been a determination to rise well before dawn and ride back to al-Hudayl. He was not prepared for the emotional upheaval of a second parting. He did not want to see the helpless eyes of his friend pleading silently for mercy.
And there was another reason. He wanted to relive the journeys of his lost youth: to ride home in the cleansing air, far removed from the reality of Miguel’s sordid baptisms; to feel the first rays of the morning sun, deflected by the mountain peaks; and to feast his eyes on the inexhaustible reserves of blue skies. Just before sleep finally overpowered him, Umar had a strong sensation that he would not see Ibn Hisham again.