‘Allah be praised. It does my heart good to see both of you at home.’
‘Amira,’ instructed Miguel as he picked a date, removed its seed and replaced it with an almond, ‘please ask my niece to join us for a few minutes.’
Ama limped back in to the house as Zahra repeated her question.
‘Why, Miguel? Why?’
Miguel’s heart began to pound. His face, which had become so accustomed to concealing all emotions, suddenly filled with anguish.
‘You really don’t know, do you?’
Zahra shook her head. They saw Zubayda approaching, and what Miguel might or might not have told her remained buried in his heart.
‘Sit down my child,’ said Miguel. ‘I have something important to say to you, and it is best said while the men are away.’
Zubayda sat down next to him.
‘I am intrigued, Uncle Miguel. My ears await your message.’
‘It is your brain which I wish to address. Yazid’s chess-set is the most dangerous weapon you have in this house. If it were to be reported to the Archbishop in Gharnata he would inform the Inquisition, especially if it was carved in Ishbiliya.’
‘Who told you it was carved in Ishbiliya?’
‘Yazid and Hind.’
Zubayda was moved by the instinct of her children to protect Juan the carpenter. Living in the village had made her complacent, and her first reaction had been to tell Miguel the truth, but she paused for reflection and decided to follow the line laid down by Yazid.
‘They must know.’
‘You are a fool, Zubayda. I am not here to spy on my family. I want you to burn those chess pieces. They might cost the boy his life. In this beautiful village the music of the water lulls us into a world of dreams. It is easy, too easy, to become complacent. I used to think we would be safe here for all time to come. I was wrong. The world in which you were born is dead, my child. Sooner or later the winds which carry the seeds of our destruction will penetrate the mountains and reach this house. The children must be warned. They are impatient. Headstrong. In the eyes of that little boy I see my own defiance of long ago. Hind is a very intelligent girl. I understand why you don’t wish her to marry my Juan. Do not protest, Zubayda. I may be old, but I am not yet senile. In your place I would do the same. My motives were not the advancement of my son, but the safety of your children. And, I suppose, sentiment. Juan would marry in the family.’
Despite herself, for she found the Bishop repulsive, Zubayda was not unmoved. She knew that he spoke the truth.
‘Why do you not speak to all of them tonight, Uncle Miguel? It might have a deeper impact than anything I could say. Then we can discuss what to do with Yazid’s chess-set. The boy will be heart-broken.’
‘I will happily speak to you all tonight. That is, after all, the main reason for my visit.’
‘I thought you came to see me, Your Holiness. You crooked old stick!’ interjected Zahra, with a cackle.
Zubayda, observing the pair, was reminded of something her mother had once taught her as a child, and it made her laugh. The couple turned on her with fierce looks.
‘Share the joke this minute,’ demanded Zahra.
‘I cannot, Aunt. Do not compel me. It is too childish for words.’
‘Let us be the judges. We insist,’ said Miguel.
Zubayda looked at them and began to laugh again at the ridiculousness of it all, but she realized she had no choice but to speak.
‘It was the way Yazid’s great-aunt used the word holiness, I suppose. It reminded me of a childhood rhyme:
‘A fierce argument raged between the Needle and the Sieve;
Said the Needle: “You seem a mass of holes — how ever do you live?”
Replied the Sieve with a crafty smile: “That coloured thread
I see is not an ornament but passes through your head!”’
Zubayda saw their stern looks dissolve into laughter.
‘Was he the needle?’ asked Zahra.
Zubayda nodded.
‘And she the sieve?’ enquired Miguel.
Zubayda nodded again. For a moment they kept their balance and looked at each other in silence. Then a wave of laughter arose inside each of them but surfaced simultaneously.
As it subsided Ama, sitting underneath the pomegranate tree, felt tears trickling down her face. It was the first time Miguel had laughed in this house since the death of his mother.
The relaxed atmosphere in the courtyard of the old family house of the Banu Hudayl could not have been more different to the tension which gripped the village mosque that Friday. The prayers had passed off without incident, though Umar had been irritated on arrival to notice that despite his instructions to the contrary, half a dozen places in the front row had been kept for his family out of deference. In the early days people had stood and prayed where they could find a place. The true faith recognized no hierarchy. All were considered equal before God in the place of worship.
It had been Ibn Farid who insisted that the front row be kept empty for his family. He had been impressed by the Christian nobility’s practice of reserving special pews in church. He knew that such a practice was repugnant to Islam, but he had insisted nonetheless on some recognition of the Muslim aristocracy by the mosque.
Umar stood discreetly at the back with the Dwarf and other servants from the house, but Zuhayr and Yazid had been pushed to the front by helping hands, and they had dragged Ibn Daud with them.
The prayers were now over. A young, blue-eyed Imam, new to the village, began to prepare himself for the Friday sermon. His old predecessor had been a very learned theologian and greatly respected as a human being. The son of a poor peasant, he had studied at the madresseh in Gharnata, acquired a great deal of knowledge, but never forgotten his origins. His successor was in his late thirties. His rich brown beard emphasized the whiteness of his turban as well as his skin. He was slightly nervous as he waited for the congregation to settle down and for the non-Muslim latecomers to be accommodated. The Jewish and Christian members of the tiny village community were permitted to attend the meeting after the Friday prayers were over. Yazid was delighted to see Juan the carpenter and Ibn Hasd enter the precincts of the mosque. They were accompanied by an old man robed in dark red. Yazid wondered who this person could be and nudged his brother. Zuhayr recognized Wajid al-Zindiq and trembled slightly, but did not say anything.
Suddenly Yazid frowned. Ubaydallah, the much-feared steward of the al-Hudayl estates, had moved up and seated himself just behind Zuhayr. Ama had told Yazid so many odious tales about this man’s corruption and debauchery that they had instilled a blind hatred in the boy. The steward smiled at Zuhayr as they exchanged greetings. Yazid glowered in anger. He was desperate to talk to Juan and tell him that Great-Uncle Miguel had been asking questions about the chess-set, but Zuhayr frowned and put his heavy arm on the boy’s shoulder to stop him wriggling.
‘Behave with dignity and never forget that we are under the public gaze,’ he whispered angrily into Yazid’s ear. ‘The honour of the Banu Hudayl is at stake. Tomorrow we may have to lead these people in a war. They must never lose their respect for us.’
‘Rubbish,’ muttered Yazid under his breath, but before his brother could retaliate the preacher had coughed to clear his throat and then begun to speak.
‘In the name of Allah the beneficent, the merciful. Peace be upon you my brothers…’
He began to drone about the glories of al-Andalus and its Muslim rulers. He wanted there to be no doubt that the Islam which had existed in the Maghreb had been the only true Islam. The Umayyad Caliph of Qurtuba and his successors had defended the true faith as prescribed by the Prophet and his Companions. The Abbasids in Baghdad had been moral degenerates.