‘It sounds good, but would it have saved us? I don’t think so. No amount of religion can succeed in changing the ways of kings unless it is based on something more, on something which our great teacher Ibn Khaldun called solidarity. Our defeats are a result of our failure to preserve the unity of al-Andalus. We let the Caliphate collapse and in its place we let poisonous weeds grow, till they had covered every inch of our garden. The big lords pounced on al-Andalus and divided it amongst themselves. Each became a big fish in a tiny pond, whereas exactly the opposite process was reshaping the kingdoms of Christianity. We founded many dynasties, but failed to find a way of ruling our people according to the dictates of reason. We failed to establish political laws, which could have protected all our citizens against the whims of arbitrary rulers. We who led the rest of the world in the realms of science and architecture, medicine and music, literature and astronomy, we who were a privileged people, could not find the road to stability and a government based on reason. That was our weakness and the Christians of Europe have learnt from our mistakes. It is that and not the way our kings dressed which has been the curse of Islam in these lands. I know that some of you think help will come from the Sultan in Istanbul. I do not believe so, my friends. I think the Turks will take the East and leave us in peace to be devoured by the Christians.’
Umar had been greatly impressed by both Miguel and al-Zindiq, but he was tired. There were more urgent matters involving his family which were worrying him and had prevented his total concentration on the proceedings of the evening. He wanted to bring the event to an end, but some traditions had acquired a semi-religious status and become part of the rules of the debate. In a tone which suggested otherwise, Umar asked if any other person present wished to speak. To his great annoyance, an old weaver rose to his feet.
‘Peace be upon all of you and may God preserve you and your family, Umar bin Abdallah,’ began the weaver. ‘I have heard both His Excellency the Bishop of Qurtuba and Ibn Zaydun who calls himself al-Zindiq with great attention. I do not possess their knowledge, but I wish to make just one point. I think our defeat was settled within the first hundred years of Tarik ibn Ziyad landing on the rock which now bears his name. When two of our generals reached the mountains the Franks know as the Pyrenees, they stood on the summit and looked down on the land of the Gauls. Then they looked at each other. They did not utter a word, but both Generals were thinking the same thing. If they wanted to safeguard al-Andalus, they had to secure the country of the Franks. We tried. Yes, we tried. Many of the cities fell to us, but the most decisive conflict in our history was the confrontation between our armies and those of Charles Martel just outside the town they call Poitiers. We lost our chance to win the Frankish kingdom that day, but we also lost al-Andalus, though few of us still recognize this fact. The only way to have saved this land for our Prophet would have been to construct a mosque in Notre-Dame. That is all I wanted to say.’
Then Umar thanked him profusely for raising their sight to a more lofty understanding of their present impasse and bade everyone present a happy night.
As the congregation began to disperse, Ama took Yazid by the hand and led him into the house, but not before she had noticed that an unusually large number of men were shaking Miguel by the hand with unusual warmth. These included his natural brother Ibn Hasd and, as the two men stood together, Hind was once again struck by how alike they looked when seen in profile. Zubayda stood by her husband exchanging greetings with the men and women of the village as they said their farewells.
Unlike his father and grandfather, Umar’s relationships with the peasants and weavers whose families dominated Hudayl were cordial, even friendly. He attended their weddings and funerals, displaying a knowledge of their names and the number of children in each family which surprised and pleased them. ‘This lord is a lord,’ a weaver would say to his wife. ‘Of that there can be no doubt. He benefits from our labours just as his fathers did, but he is a decent lord.’
There was no time tonight for such niceties. Umar was in an impatient mood. He had not spoken a great deal during the discussion and he was now eager for them all to return to their homes. Zubayda had informed him during the evening meal, which had been taken early that day in order to accommodate the debate, that their first-born was engaged in an undertaking which was as rash as it was foolish and she feared for his life. Serving women from the village had informed her that Zuhayr was recruiting young men for ‘the battle.’ Zuhayr had not been present, and when enquiries had been made as to his whereabouts, the groom reported that he had saddled the young master’s favourite steed, but had been given no indication as to his destination. All he knew was that Zuhayr al-Fahl had taken two blankets with him. When the groom had left the room, Hind had been unable to control a smile. That was all Umar needed to make a deduction.
‘Discourteous dog! His great-uncle will debate his great friend Ibn Zaydun on matters of life and death for his family, his faith, our future, and where is our knight? Busy on some hillside impregnating a wretched maid-servant.’
From inside the house Zuhayr observed the departures, feeling regret that he had absented himself from this important occasion. He was feeling sated and tinged with disgust at his own lack of discipline and his affinities to the animal kingdom, but… but, he thought as he relived the experience, Umayma was so different from those painted whores in Gharnata, whose flesh was manhandled every hour of the day and night. Umayma made him feel irresponsible. She excited his sensuality. She neither expected nor demanded anything more. If he had not gone to her this evening he might never have seen her again. Within three months she would be married to Suleiman, the bald, cross-eyed weaver who spun the finest silk in the village, but who was hardly a match for him, Zuhayr al-Fahl, in the crafts which really mattered.
‘Well?’ said Umar, startling his son. ‘Where were you? Missing the meal was unimportant, but absenting yourself from the debate at such a time? Your absence was noted. Ibn Hasd and Suleiman the weaver were both enquiring after your health!’
‘Peace be upon you, Father,’ muttered Zuhayr, trying desperately not to show his unease. ‘I was out with friends. An innocent evening, I assure you.’
Umar looked at his son and could not restrain a smile. The boy was such an unaccomplished liar. He had his mother’s light-brown eyes and, as he stood there facing him, Umar felt a strong charge of emotion. There was a time when they had been close. It was Umar who had taught Zuhayr to ride and hunt, Umar who had taken him to swim in the river. The boy had often accompanied his father to the court at the al-Hamra. Now he felt he had left the boy alone for far too long, especially since the birth of Yazid. How different they were and how he loved them both.
He slumped on to a large cushion. ‘Sit down, Zuhayr. Your mother tells me that you have made some plans. What are they?’
Zuhayr’s face became very serious. He suddenly looked much older than his years.
‘I’m leaving, Father. Early tomorrow morning. I wanted to bid farewell to all of you tonight, but Yazid is fast asleep and I could not leave without hugging him. I’m leaving for Gharnata. We can’t allow the monks to bury us alive. We must act now before it is too late. Plans for an insurrection are under way. It is a duel with Christianity, Father. Better to die fighting than live the life of a slave.’
Umar’s heart began to pound. He saw a vision. A clash with the Captain-General’s soldiers. Confusion. Swords are raised, shots are heard, and his Zuhayr lies on the grass with a hole in his head.