‘You are wondering how people like us can ever defeat the Christians, but ask yourself once again how it has come to pass that the most ardent defenders of the faith have failed in this very task.’
‘I won’t argue any more,’ replied Zuhayr. ‘My mind is decided. I will take my leave now and join my friends who await me in Gharnata.’
He rose and picked up his sword. Fatima and the others followed him out into the cold air. It was getting late and Zuhayr was determined to reach his destination before sunset.
‘Peace be upon you, Zuhayr bin Umar,’ said Abu Zaid as he embraced the young man in farewell. ‘And remember, if you change your mind and wish to join us, ride to the al-Pujarras till you come to a tiny village called al-Basit. Mention my name to the first person you meet and within a day I shall be with you. May God protect you!’
Zuhayr mounted his horse, raised his cupped right hand to his forehead in a salute, and within a few minutes found himself back on the road to Gharnata. He was glad to be alone again, away from the illicit company of heretics and thieves. He had enjoyed the experience, but he felt as unclean as he always did after he had been with Umayma. He expanded his lungs and breathed in the fresh mountain air to cleanse his insides.
He saw the city as he reached the top of a hill. In the old days when he was riding to court with his father’s entourage, they would stop here and drink in the view. His father would usually recount a tale from the days of old Sultan Abul Hassan. Then they would race down the slope in childish abandon. Once the gates were reached, dignity would be restored. For a moment Zuhayr was tempted to charge down the hillside, but better sense prevailed. Christian soldiers were posted at every entrance to the city. He had to behave in as calm a fashion as his brain would permit. As he reached the city gates he wondered what Ibn Daud would have made of his strange encounter with the bandits. Ibn Daud was such a know-all, but had he ever heard of al-Ma’ari?
The Christian sentries stared hard at the young man coming towards them. From the quality of his robes and the silk turban which graced his head, they saw that he was a nobleman, a Moorish knight probably here to visit a lover. From the fact that he openly carried a sword they deduced that he was no criminal intent on murder. Zuhayr saw them inspecting him and slowed his horse down even further, but the soldiers did not even bother to stop him. He acknowledged their presence with a slight nod of the chin, an action subconsciously inherited from his father. The soldiers smiled and waved him on.
As he rode into the town, Zuhayr felt serene once again. The confusion unleashed by that unexpected meeting with the heretics a few hours ago already seemed like a strange dream. In the old days or even a month ago, Zuhayr would have headed straight to the house of his uncle, Ibn Hisham, but today it was something that could not even be considered. Not because Ibn Hisham had become Pedro al-Gharnata, a converso, but because Zuhayr did not wish to endanger his uncle’s family.
His dozen or so followers had reached Gharnata the previous day, and those who did not have friends or relations in the city were settled in rooms at the Funduq. To stay in a rest-house in a city full of friends and relations, and a city which he knew so well, seemed unreal. And yet it concentrated his mind on what he hoped to achieve. He did not wish to feel at home in Gharnata on this particular visit. He wanted during every minute of the day and night he spent here to be reminded of the tasks that lay ahead. In his fantasy, Zuhayr saw his future as the standard-bearer of a counter-attack which true Believers would launch against the new state under construction. Against the she-devil Isabella and the lecherous Ferdinand. Against the evil Ximenes. Against them all.
Later that evening Zuhayr’s comrades came to welcome him to the city. He had been given one of the more comfortable rooms. A six-branched brass lantern decorated with an unusually intricate pattern hung from the ceiling. A soft light emanated from the oil burners. In the centre of the room stood an earthenware brazier, densely packed with burning coal. In one corner there was a handsome bed, covered with a silken green and mauve quilt. The eight young men were all sitting on a giant prayer mat which covered the floor in the corner opposite to the bed.
Zuhayr knew them well. They had grown up together. There were the two brothers from the family of the gold merchant, Ibn Mansur; the son of the herbalist, Mohammed bin Basit; Ibn Amin, the youngest son of the Jewish physician assigned to the Captain-General; and three of the young toughs from al-Hudayl who had arrived in Gharnata on the previous day. The reconquest itself had not changed the pattern of these young men’s lives. Till the arrival of the man with a bishop’s hat and a black heart, they had continued to lead a carefree existence. Ximenes de Cisneros had compelled them to think seriously for the first time in their lives. For this, at least, they should have been grateful to him. But the prelate had threatened their entire way of life. For this they hated him.
Nature had not intended any of these men to become conspirators. When they first arrived in Zuhayr’s room all of them were feeling tense and self-conscious. Their faces were glum. Zuhayr saw the state they were in and made them feel at home by inaugurating a round of restorative gossip. Once they had dissected the private lives of their contemporaries, they became more cheerful, almost like their old selves.
Ibn Amin was the only one who had refrained from the animated discussion taking place around him. He was not even listening. He was thinking of the horrors that lay ahead, and he spoke with anger in his voice.
‘By the time they’ve finished with us, they will not have left us any eyes to weep or tongues to scream. On his own the Captain-General would leave us be. It is the priest who is the problem.’
This was followed by a chorus of complaints. Inquisitors from Kashtalla had been seen in the city. There had been inquiries as to whether the conversions which were taking place were genuine or not. Spies had been posted outside the homes of conversos to see whether they went to work on Fridays, how often they bathed, whether new-born boys were being circumcised and so on. There had been several incidents of soldiers insulting and even molesting Muslim women.
‘Ever since this cursed priest entered our town,’ said Ibn Basit, the herbalist’s son, ‘they have been making an inventory of all the property and wealth in the hands of the Moors and the Jews. There is no doubt they will take everything away unless we convert.’
‘My father says that even if we do convert they will find other means to steal our property.’ The speaker was Salman bin Mohammed, the elder of the gold merchant’s two sons. ‘Look at what they’ve done to the Jews.’
‘Those bloodsuckers in Rome who set themselves up as Popes would sell the Virgin Mary herself to line their pockets,’ muttered Ibn Amin. ‘The Spanish Church is only following the example of its Holy Father.’
‘But at our expense!’ said Ibn Basit.
Ever since the fall of Gharnata, Zuhayr had been a silent witness at many such discussions in Gharnata and al-Hudayl. Usually his father or uncle or some village elder directed the discussion with a carefully timed intervention. Zuhayr was tired. The wind was beginning to penetrate the shutters and the brazier would soon run out of coal. The servants of the Funduq had gone to bed. He wanted to sleep, but he knew that the conversation could meander on in the quivering lamplight till the early hours unless he brought matters to a head and insisted on certain decisions being made tonight.
‘You see, my friends, we are not difficult people to understand. It is true that those amongst us who live on landed estates in the country have, over the centuries, become cocooned in a world which is very different to life in the cities. Here your life revolves round the market. Our memories and hopes are all connected with the land and those who work on it. Often there are things which please us country people which none of you would care about. We have cultivated this land for centuries. We produced the food that fed Qurtuba, Ishbiliya and Gharnata. This enriched the soil in the towns. A culture grew which the Christians can burn, but will never match. We opened the doors and the light which shone from our cities illuminated this whole continent. Now they want to take it all away from us. We are not even considered worthy to be permitted a few small enclaves where we can live in peace. It is this fact which has brought us together. Town and country will die the same death. Your traders and all your professions, our weavers and peasants — all are faced with extinction.’