‘But why, Father? Why? Perhaps Ama is right after all. Nothing will be left of us except fragrant memories.’
‘Wa Allah! Did she really say that?’
Yazid nodded tearfully. Umar felt the wetness on his son’s face and held him close. ‘Yazid bin Umar. There is no longer any such thing for us as an easy decision. We are living in the most difficult period of our history. We have not had such serious problems since Tarik and Musa first occupied these lands. And you know how long ago that was, do you not?’
Yazid nodded. ‘In our first century and their eighth.’
‘Exactly so, my child. Exactly so. It is getting late. Let us wash our hands and eat. Your mother is waiting.’
Ama, who had heard the entire conversation in silence from the edge of the courtyard outside the kitchen, blessed father and son under her breath as they walked indoors. Then, swaying to and fro, she let loose a strange rattle from the back of her throat and spat out a malediction.
‘Ya Allah! Save us from these crazed dogs and eaters of pigs. Protect us from these enemies of truth, who are so blinded by sectarian beliefs that they nail their God to a piece of wood and call it father, mother and son, drowning their followers in a sea of falsehood. They have subjected and annihilated us through the force of their oppression. Ten thousand praises to you, O Allah, for I am sure you will deliver us from the rule of these dogs who in many towns come daily to pull us from our homes…’
How long she would have carried on in this vein is uncertain, but a young serving woman interrupted her.
‘Your food is getting cold, Ama.’
The old woman rose to her feet slowly and with her slightly bent back followed the maid into the kitchen. Ama’s status among the servants was unambiguous. As the master’s wet-nurse who had been with the family since she was born, her authority in the servants’ quarters was unchallenged, but this did not solve all the problems of protocol. Apart from the venerable Dwarf, who boasted that he was the most skilled cuisinier in al-Andalus and who knew exactly how far he could go in discussing the family in the presence of Ama, the others steered away from sensitive subjects in her presence. It was not that Ama was a family spy. Sometimes she would let her tongue loosen and the servants would be amazed by her boldness, but despite these incidents her familiarity with the master and the sons made the rest of the household uneasy.
In fact, if the truth be told, Ama was extremely critical of Yazid’s mother and the way she brought up her children. If she let her thoughts travel uncensored on this subject Ama finally ended up praying that the master would take a new wife. She regarded the lady of the manor as over-indulgent to her daughters, over-generous to the peasants who worked on the estate, over-lenient to the servants and their vices and indifferent to the practices of their faith.
On occasion Ama went so far as to voice a moderate version of these thoughts to Umar bin Abdallah, stressing that it was precisely weaknesses of this order which had brought Islam to the sorry pass in which it now found itself in al-Andalus. Umar simply laughed and later repeated every word to his wife. Zubayda was equally entertained by the thought that the frailties of al-Andalusian Islam were symbolized in her person.
The sounds of laughter emanating from the dining chamber tonight had nothing to do with Ama or her eccentricities. The jokes were a sure sign that the Dwarf’s menu for the evening had found favour with his employers. On an ordinary day the family ate modestly. There were usually no more than four separate dishes and a plate of sweetmeats, followed by fresh fruit. Tonight they had been presented with a heavily spiced and scented barbecue lamb; rabbits stewed in fermented grape-juice with red peppers and whole cloves of garlic; meat-balls stuffed with brown truffles which literally melted in the mouth; a harder variety of meat-balls fried in coriander oil and served with triangular pieces of chilli-paste fried in the same oil; a large container full of bones floating in a saffron-coloured sauce; a large dish of fried rice; miniature vol-au-vents and three different salads; asparagus, a mixture of thinly sliced onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, sprinkled with herbs and the juice of fresh lemons, chick-peas soaked in yoghurt and sprinkled with pepper.
It had been Yazid trying to extract the marrow from a bone and blowing it by mistake on to his father’s beard that had caused the laughter. Hind clapped her hands and two serving women entered the room. Her mother it was who asked them to clear the table and distribute the large amount of left-over food amongst themselves.
‘And listen. Tell the Dwarf we will not try his sweetmeats or cheese-cakes tonight. Just serve the sugar-cane. Has it been dipped in rose-water? Hurry up. It’s late.’
It was already too late for young Yazid, who had fallen asleep leaning on the floor-cushion. Ama, who had suspected this, walked into the room, put her finger on her lips to stress the need for silence and signalled to the rest that Yazid was fast asleep. Alas, she was too old to pick him up any longer. The thought saddened her. Umar realized instinctively what was passing through his old wet-nurse’s head. He recalled his own childhood, when she barely let his feet touch the ground and his mother became worried that he might never learn to walk. Umar rose, and gently lifting his son, he carried him to his bed-chamber, followed by Ama wearing a triumphant smile. It was she who undressed the boy and put him to bed, making sure that the bed-covers were firmly in place.
Umar was in a thoughtful frame of mind when he joined his wife and daughters to partake of a few slices of sugar-cane. Strange how that memory of Ama picking him up and putting him to bed all those years ago had made him reflect yet again on the terminal character of the year that had just begun. Terminal, that is, for the Banu Hudayl and their way of life. Terminal if the truth be told, for Islam in al-Andalus.
Zubayda, sensing his change of mood, attempted to penetrate his mind.
‘My lord, answer me one question.’
Distracted by the voice he looked at her and smiled vacantly.
‘In times such as these, what is the most important consideration? To survive here as best we can, or to rethink the last five hundred years of our existence and plan our future accordingly?’
‘I am not yet sure of the reply.’
‘I am,’ declared Hind.
‘Of that I am sure,’ replied her father, ‘but the hour is late and we can continue our discussion another day.’
‘Time is against us, Father.’
‘Of that too I am sure, my child.’
‘Peace be upon you, Father.’
‘Bless you my daughters. Sleep well.’
‘Will you be long?’ asked Zubayda.
‘Just a few minutes. I need to breathe some fresh air.’
For some, minutes after they had left, Umar remained seated, engrossed in his meditations, staring at the empty table. Then he rose and, wrapping a blanket round his shoulders, walked out into the courtyard. The fresh air made him shiver slightly even though there was no chill and he clutched the blanket tightly as he began to walk up and down.
The torches were being extinguished inside, and he was left to measure his paces in starlight. The only noise was that of the stream which entered the courtyard at one corner, fed the fountain in its centre and then flowed out at the other end of the house. In happier days he would have collected the scent-laden flowers from the jasmine bushes, placed them tenderly in a muslin handkerchief, sprinkled them with water to keep them fresh and placed them at the side of Zubayda’s pillow. In the morning they would still be fresh and aromatic. Tonight such thoughts were very remote from his mind.
Umar bin Abdallah was thinking, and the recurring images were so powerful that they made his whole body tremble momentarily. He imagined the wall of fire. Memories of that cold night flooded back. Uncontrollable tears watered his face and were trapped by his beard. The fall of Gharnata eight years ago had completed the Reconquest. It had always been on the cards and neither Umar nor his friends had been particularly surprised. But the surrender terms had promised the Believers, who comprised a majority of the citizenry, cultural and religious freedom once they recognized the suzerainty of the Castilian rulers. It was stated on paper and in the presence of witnesses that Gharnata’s Muslims would not be persecuted or prevented from practising their religion, speaking and teaching Arabic or celebrating their festivals. Yes, Umar thought, that is what Isabella’s prelates had pledged in order to avoid a civil war. And we believed them. How blind we were. Our brains must have been poisoned by alcohol. How could we have believed their fine words and promises?