‘It is a crazy plan, my child. Most of these young men who rant in the baths of Gharnata will run at the first sight of the Castilians. Let me finish. I have no doubt that you will find a few hundred boys to fight on your side. History is full of young fools getting drunk on religion and rushing to do battle with the infidel. Far easier to drink poison underneath a tree by the river and die peacefully. But better still to live, my son.’
Zuhayr’s mind was not free of doubt, but he knew better than to admit that to his father. He truly did not wish to be talked out of the endeavour which he and his friends had been planning ever since the bonfire on the Bab al-Ramla. His face remained deadly serious.
‘Contrary to what you imagine, Father, I have no great hopes for the success of our uprising, but it is necessary.’
‘Why?’
‘So that things stay the same in our kingdom of Gharnata. It is bad, but better it should stay like this than be handed over to Torquemada’s animals, who they call priests and familiars. If our last Sultan, may God curse him, had not capitulated without a fight, things might have been different. Isabella treats us like whipped dogs. Our challenge will show them and others of our faith throughout this peninsula that we will die on our feet, not our knees; that there is still some life underneath the ruins of our civilization.’
‘Foolish, foolish boy!’
‘Ask Ibn Daud what he saw in Sarakusta and Balansiya on his way to Gharnata. Every Muslim who fled from the Christians has said the same.’
Despite himself, Umar felt an unusually strong sense of pride in his son. He had underestimated Zuhayr.
‘What are you talking about boy? You’re very unlike yourself. Talking in riddles.’
‘I’m talking about the looks on the faces of their priests as they depart to supervise the torture of innocents and the making of orphans in the dungeons of the Inquisition! Unless we fight now everything will die, Father. Everything!’
‘Perhaps everything will die in any case, whether you fight or not.’
‘Perhaps.’
Umar knew that Zuhayr, deep inside himself, was tormented by uncertainties. He sympathized with his son’s dilemma. Having spoken up at the mosque, and having boasted of victories that lay ahead in the company of his friends, the boy felt trapped. Umar determined to prevent his son’s departure.
‘You are still a young man, Zuhayr. At your age death appears to be an illusion. I will not let you throw your life away. Anything could happen to me, now that I have decided that conversion is impossible. Who would look after your mother and sisters? Yazid? They have taken power and authority away from us, but the estates are still intact. We can enjoy our wealth in peace and dignity. Why should al-Hudayl disturb the Castilians? Their eyes are on a new world, on its mountains of silver and gold. They have defeated us and resistance is futile. I forbid you to leave!’
Zuhayr had never fought in a real battle. His experience was limited to the intensive training he had received in the arts of war as a boy. He was an expert swordsman and his daredevil exploits on horseback were well known to all those who attended the tournaments in Gharnata on the Prophet’s birthday. But he could not forget that he had yet to cross swords with a real enemy.
As he looked into his father’s grim face, Zuhayr realized that this was his last opportunity to change his mind. He could simply inform his fellow conspirators that his father had forbidden him to leave the house. Umar was widely respected and they would all understand. Or would they? Zuhayr could not tolerate the thought that one of his friends might accuse him of cowardice. But that was not his only concern. Zuhayr did not believe that al-Hudayl would be safe as long as Ximenes held sway in Gharnata. That made him feel that Umar was dangerously out of tune with the times.
‘Abu,’ began Zuhayr plaintively, ‘nothing matters to me as much as the safety of our home and the estates. That is why I must go. My mind is set. If you instruct me to stay here against my will and my judgement, then of course I will not disobey, but I will be unhappy, and when I am unhappy, Abu, I think of death as a consolation.
‘Can you not see that the monks will destroy everything? Sooner or later they must reach al-Hudayl. They want to reduce al-Andalus to a desert. They want to burn our memory. How then can they permit even a single oasis to survive? Do not compel me to stay. You must understand that what I want to do is the one course that might save our home and our faith.’
Umar was unconvinced, and the argument continued, with Zuhayr growing ever more adamant as the hours went by. Finally Umar perceived that his son could not be kept at home against his will. His face softened. Zuhayr knew at once that he had won his first battle. He understood his father’s temperament. Once Umar agreed to something, he sat back and did not meddle.
The two men stood up. Umar hugged his son and kissed his cheeks. Then he walked to a large chest and from it removed a beautifully engraved silver scabbard which contained the sword of Ibn Farid. He drew the weapon and, holding it with both his hands, lifted it above Zuhayr’s head and handed it to him.
‘If fight you must, then best to do it with a weapon tried and tested in many battles.’
Zuhayr’s eyes became moist.
‘Come,’ said Umar bin Abdallah. ‘Let us go and break the news to your mother.’
As Zuhayr, proudly carrying the sword of his great-grandfather, followed his father through the inner courtyard, they ran into Miguel and Zahra. Four different voices resounded in unison.
‘Peace be upon you.’
Miguel and Zahra saw their father’s sword and understood everything.
‘God protect you, child,’ said Zahra, kissing his cheeks.
Zuhayr did not reply, but stared at the odd couple. The encounter had disturbed him. Then his father tapped him gently on the shoulder and they walked away. It had all lasted a few seconds. Zuhayr thought it was a bad omen.
‘Will Miguel…?’ he began to ask his father, but Umar shook his head.
‘Unthinkable,’ he whispered. ‘Your great-uncle Miguel would never put the Church before his own family.’
For a while Zahra and Miguel stood still, like sentinels on guard duty. Remnants of a generation which had ceased to exist. The sky above them was full of stars, but neither it nor the solitary lamp on the wall, just above the entrance to the bath-chamber, gave much light. In the night shadows, with their bent spines draped in thick woollen shawls, they resembled a pair of stunted, weatherbeaten pine trees. It was the Bishop who broke the silence.
‘I fear the worst.’
Zahra was about to say something when Hind and Ibn Daud, followed by three maid-servants, entered the courtyard. None of them saw the old lady or Miguel. The young man bowed and was about to walk away to his room, till he heard a voice.
‘Ibn Daud!’
It was Hind who replied.
‘Wa Allah! You frightened me, Great-Uncle. Peace be upon you, Great-Aunt.’
‘Come,’ said Miguel to Ibn Daud, ‘you can walk me to my room, which is next to where you sleep. I never thought the day would come when I would stay in the chambers reserved for guests in this house.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Zahra. ‘Where else could they put you? In the stables? Hind, I need you to press me tonight. The cold is eating into my bones and I have been feeling a pain in my chest and shoulders.’
‘Yes, Great-Aunt,’ said Hind, dismissing the servants with a nod and looking longingly at the back of the young man with green eyes. Ibn Daud was escorting the Bishop through the corridor which linked the courtyard to a set of rooms which had been added to the house by Ibn Farid. There visiting Christian knights had been feasted and provided with nocturnal entertainments.