‘Ay de mi al-Hama. Woe is me, Al-Hama.’
The memory of those atrocities raised Zuhayr’s temperature, and he began to sing a popular ballad which had been composed to mark the carnage.
‘The Moorish Sultan was riding
through the city of Gharnata,
from the Bab al-Ilbira
to the Bab al-Ramla.
Dispatches were brought him:
Al-Hama had been taken
Ay de mi al-Hama!
He threw the letters in the fire,
and killed the messenger;
he ran his hands through his hair
pulled at his beard in a rage.
He got off his mule
and rode on a horse;
along up Zacatin
climbed to the al-Hamra;
he ordered his trumpets top blast,
and his silver bugles,
so the Moors would hear
as they ploughed the fields.
Ay de mi al-Hama!
Four by four, five by five,
a large company assembled.
An old sage spoke up
from the depths of his thick grey beard:
“Why do you call us, Sultan?
What do your trumpets announce?”
“So you can hear, my friends,
of the great loss of al-Hama.
Ay de mi al-Hama.”
“It serves you right, good Sultan,
good king, you well deserved it;
you killed the princes
who were the flower of Gharnata;
you took the turncoats
from Qurtuba the renowned.
And so, king, you deserve
very great punishment,
your own and your kingdom’s ruin
and soon the end of our Gharnata.
Ay de mi al-Hama!”’
The ballad reminded him of his dead cousins. Their laughter rang in his ears, but the joyful recollections did not stay long. He saw them now as dismembered bodies and felt a chill. In turn he became frenzied, disdainful and bitter as he spurred his steed on faster and faster. Suddenly he found himself removing Ibn Farid’s sword from the scabbard. He held it above his head and imagined that he was at the head of the Moorish cavalry, riding out to relieve al-Hama.
‘There is only one God and Mohammed is his Prophet!’ shouted Zuhayr at the top of his voice. To his astonishment there was a resounding echo, but in dozens of voices. He reined in his horse. Both beast and master stood still. The sword was gently sheathed. Zuhayr could hear the noise of hoofs and then he saw the dust. Who could they be? For a moment he thought they were Christian knights who had responded to his cry in order to entrap him. He knew that no other horse in the kingdom could outpace his steed, but it would be cowardly, against the rules of chivalry, to run away. He waited till the horsemen neared the road and then rode out to meet them. To his great relief all fourteen wore turbans, and on each of these there was planted the familiar crescent. There was something unusual about their attire, but before Zuhayr could determine where the strangeness lay, he found himself being addressed by the stranger who appeared to be the commander of this small group by virtue of his age.
‘Peace be upon you brother! Who are you and where are you headed?’
‘I am Zuhayr bin Umar. I come from the village of al-Hudayl and I am on my way to Gharnata. Wa Allah! You are all followers of the Prophet. I was frightened when I first saw the dust raised by your horses. But pray who are you and in which direction do you travel?’
‘So!’ replied the stranger. ‘You are the great-grandson of Ibn Farid. Al-Zindiq has told us a great deal about you, Zuhayr al-Fahl!’
At this the stranger roared with laughter and his followers joined him. Zuhayr smiled politely and studied each in turn. Now he saw what had first struck him as eccentric. On the left ear of every single one of them there hung a silver ear-ring in the shape of a crescent. Zuhayr’s heart froze, though he tried hard to control his fear. The men were bandits, and if they realized he was carrying gold coins in his purse they would deprive him of the burden, but they might also steal his life. He would much rather die in battle against the Christians. He repeated his question.
‘You say you know my teacher, al-Zindiq. This makes me happy, but I still do not know who you are or what your business is.’
‘We ride through this land far and wide,’ came the jovial reply. ‘We have flung away our pride and have no cares or troubles. We can slow down the speeding torrent, tame a troublesome steed. We can drink a flask of wine without pausing for breath, consume a lamb while it still roasts on the spit, pull the beard of a preacher and sing to our hearts’ content. We live unconstrained by the need to protect and preserve our reputation, for we have none. We all bear one name in common. The name of al-Ma’ari, the blind poet who lived between Aleppo and Dimashk some four hundred years ago. Come and share our bread and wine and you shall learn some more. Come now, Zuhayr al-Fahl. We shall not detain you long.’
Zuhayr was startled by the nature of this response, but it calmed his fears. They were far too eccentric to be cold-blooded killers. He nodded his agreement to the offer and as they wheeled their horses he rode alongside them. After a few miles they reached the boulders. These were carefully removed and they turned off the track through the concealed entrance. After a ten-minute ride he found himself in an armed encampment. It was a village of tents, strategically placed near a tiny stream. A dozen women and half that number of young children were seated outside one of the tents. The women were grinding corn. The children were playing an intricate game with stones.
The captain of this band, who now introduced himself formally as Abu Zaid al-Ma’ari, invited Zuhayr into his tent. The interior was austere, apart from a rug on which lay a few ragged cushions. As they sat a young woman entered with a flask of wine, two tiny loaves of brown bread and a selection of cucumbers, tomatoes, radishes and onions. She put these in front of the two men and hurried out, only to return with a bowl full of olive oil. It was at this point that Abu Zaid introduced her to Zuhayr.
‘My daughter, Fatima.’
‘Peace be upon you,’ muttered Zuhayr, charmed by the young woman’s carefree demeanour. ‘Will you not break bread with us?’
‘I will join you later with the others after we have eaten,’ replied Fatima, flashing her eyes at Abu Zaid. ‘I think my father wishes to speak to you alone.’
‘Now my young friend,’ began Abu Zaid al-Ma’ari as his daughter left them alone, ‘it is not fate that has brought us together, but al-Zindiq. As you can see we are men who live by what we can steal from the rich. In line with the teachings of the great al-Ma’ari, we do not distinguish between Muslim, Christian or Jew. Wealth is not the preserve of one religion. Please do not be afraid. I noticed the alarm in your eyes when you first caught sight of the silver crescent which pierces our left ear. You wondered, did you not, whether your gold was safe?’
‘To be frank,’ confided Zuhayr, dipping the bread in the olive oil, ‘I was more worried for my life.’
‘Yes, of course,’ continued Abu Zaid, ‘and you were right to be so worried, but as I had begun to tell you it was that old man in the mountain cave who told me that you had embarked on a wild venture to Gharnata. He pleaded with me to try and stop you; to persuade you either to return to your ancestral home or to join our little band. We are thinking of leaving this region and moving to the al-Pujarras, where there are many others like us. There we will wait for the right moment. Then we shall seize the time and join the battle.’